“Volunteered?” It sounds like a cleaner way of saying “were manipulated.”
“Tell me,” she says coldly, “is it any cleaner a death when your mother sends prisoners to the Abyss? Can you vouch for all of her victims? Are they all evil? Are they all guilty? Are none of them mere victims of happenstance—or worse, your mother’s whim?” She leans forward. “Innocents die, Iskvien, and they die at your mother’s hand. Is that any better than a sacrifice made to still the lands? You know not of what you speak.
“The seelie cut down our forests. They murdered my children and took their sacred Hallows from them. They bred them and forced them into mines to work, and still it wasn’t enough.” The Mother towers over me. “Was it wrong of me to demand vengeance? Was it wrong of me to risk everything I had—all my power, all my lands—to go to war against your filthy brethren?”
She shakes her head and laughs, a hollow, echoing sound. “History belongs to the victor, and what is truth when lies serve your purpose so much better? Have you ever read a book that was written before the wars? I can answer that for you—no. Because your mother’s ancestors burned everything they could get their hands on that countered the lies they told, and then your mother finished the job. Do you know why they call me the Mother of Night?”
I can’t speak.
“Who do you think my children turned to when their babies lay weakened and barely breathing in their arms? Who do you think midwives and mothers begged for mercy when their children struggled to be born? Who do you think breathed a single precious mouthful of power into weakened lungs so their children would survive?” She bows her head and stares at her hands. “When I was mortal, I was the one they turned to when children struggled to be born. I was life incarnate. I was the spark of light in the darkness of the night.”
“When you were mortal?”
There’s another dangerous smile. “I was born into this world as you were, little queen. My heart beat and I felt blood rush through my veins, just as you do. But there was Old Blood in my veins, and my father’s seed bled power. For every whispered thanks, I grew in strength. For every prayer that begged for mercy, I could feel the earth starting to stir beneath my feet. You speak of sacrifice? When I made that long, slow walk down to the Hallow in what you now call Mistmere, I could feel the cold stone beneath my feet and my people’s eyes upon me as they begged the old gods to accept my sacrifice and restore the lands. I can still feel the kiss of the knife across my throat.” Her fingertips brush the hollow of her collarbone as if she senses it now. “The Hallow took my mortality, but it gave me something so much more. My blood and my life bound me to the lands, and I finally realized what I was destined to be. I was no longer leanabh an dàn, I was immortal and the champion of my people.”
She lifts her head proudly. “You and I are not so different. All we want to do is protect our own. That’s all I want. And I cannot protect them from here.”
“You’re lying.”
She would say anything to get me to free her kind.
“Free me,” she says, “and I will protect those of my people who are scattered across the continent. Free me, and I will stand at your side when you go to war against your mother. Free me, and I will not falter. I will be the ally you need to stand against the darkness that is coming.”
“Free you and start a war? There has been peace for five hundred years!”
“Peace for whom?” she demands. “Your kind? Or mine?”
I swallow.
There are otherkin out there still, hidden in the forests. We rarely see them—they stick to the north, to unseelie, where they are safe—but I know they still exist.
Sometimes my mother displays their heads on pikes along the castle walls, though it’s rare to see one in Asturia.
And my stomach twists, because the only otherkin I have ever seen were murdered by my mother.
“We are as much a part of you as the fae are,” she says coldly. “You disappoint me, Iskvien. Your people need you, and yet you turn your back.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
I shake my head. I can’t trust her. I can’t. She would say anything to be free of this prison world.
But what if she’s telling the truth?
What do I do?
If I free her, then everything that the Seelie Alliance fought so hard for five hundred years ago will be undone. I need to talk to Thiago. He was there. He faced their armies. He faced the Old Ones and the otherkin and the unseelie.
“Take me back,” I tell her.
“Not yet.”
I turn to go. I can feel the power of the Hallow. This isn’t her prison world, though she can clearly access the Hallow. She has no power over me here.
“You wanted to know who your father was?” she calls, and despite myself, my steps slow. “Then I will give you a gift. He was once called Arion, many a moon ago, when he was still mortal. And he too yearns to be freed for more than two nights a year. You could know him, Iskvien. Your mother may have turned from you, but she’s not the only line you come from.”
I can’t let her keep speaking.
This is only manipulation.
She’s been in my head; she knows what lies in my heart.
“Wake up,” I whisper, closing my eyes and drawing on my power. “Wake up.”
And then the shock of feeling like my head is being forced underwater makes me gasp. I see a Hallow emblazoned with torches. I feel a hand pressing me to my knees as the crowd writhes and chants. And I
