Myrddin whispered in an unknown language, and Garin watched, fascinated, as a ball of brilliantorangeflame lifted from Henri’s chest. The warlock inhaled sharply.
“What?” Garin asked, panic rising. “What’s wrong?”
“This is the third time I’ve performed such a spell, and I’ve never seen a soul flame that color.” Myrddin guided the flame over the altar, down the steps, and over Lilac.
“A life taken for exchange is one thing,” said Morwenn dryly, rooted in her spot near Lilac’s feet. “A life willingly given is another entirely.”
“Holds a different type of weight. Magic,” Myrddin agreed.
The flame sank into her chest, and her entire body came alive in an outline of warm light before fading.
Garin rose, her dagger still dripping with the old king’s blood. “I will be your blacksmith, Morwenn.” Morwenn’s head popped up. “Withconditions.”
“As expected.”
Just then, there was a shifting behind him; Marguerite had climbed down from her perch. She strode past Henri’s still-warm body and went to Lilac, kneeling and scooping her daughter’s head into her lap despite the blood soaking the fine material of her gown.
Marguerite sobbed once, brushing her hair off her face.
“Lilac will—” He was cut short by an indistinguishable sound between a sob and gasp of pain.
The queen was upright.
48
Lilac sat up to stare first into the eyes of her mother, whom she’d never seen cry, except for the night herarcana linguawas discovered. Then, she locked eyes with Garin standing over Henri’s lifeless body, her dripping blade hanging loosely in one hand.
All her incandescent rage and anxiety returned as fragments of memory, flashing through her mind. Numbly, unthinking, Lilac pulled herself off the floor, off her crying mother—she didn’t even know how the bloodied stake ended up back in her hand—and charged.
Garin’s incredulous, sun-laced smile and the way he opened his arms as he strode to meet her only infuriated her further.
Lilac pressed her thumb over her pointer and middle finger wrapped around the hawthorn and aimed for his shoulder—but Garin sheathed the Dawnshard and dipped, dodging the point. He scooped her up in a chest-breaking embrace.
Unable to help herself, she leaned into him, furious tears streaming down her face. He smelled of a bluebell wood, of the summer hyacinths peppering the glades, and the iron-tinged rush of the Argent. Of dark and ancient magic, and an existence foreboding.
He was everything she ever wanted, the darkest parts of herself in the flesh. He brought them out of her.
Garin slowly released her, planting his lips upon her forehead as his fingers found her wrist—gave it a quick squeeze, causing her to drop the stake—and pinned it behind her back. He kissed her, just deeply enough to make her mother look away, and found her other hand.
There was a quickclinkof metal, then. Much too fast to be mundane.
Lilac looked up at him, and he, down at her. She pulled at the iron and hawthorn chains binding her wrists. They tightened magically—painfully—cutting into her skin.
“I will be your blacksmith,” he said, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll come to Ys.”
Lilac slowly turned. The sea witch, Morwenn, stood there silently, watching them—watching Garin—with too thin-lipped a smile.
“You willnot,” Lilac breathed furiously, her mind and memory muddied. He would not be going to wherever or whateverYswas.
But Garin shushed her. “Hold your tongue while I do the negotiating, please,” he said quickly.
Lilac tried to argue, but no sound would come. Whatever countereffect had taken hold on her upon the rafters, berries or otherwise, had vanished.
“Oh, I do love a rift. Alas, that irreverent, cantankerous thing is not your wife,” Morwenn offered playfully, eyeing Lilac unabashedly. As if she were an animal. “That is notyourring on her finger, is it?”
“I will come.” Garin didn’t so much as blink. “But let this be clear: Lilac—whether my mistress, my fiancée, my wife, or the nice village baker who once overcharged me for bread—is comingwithme.”
“No need for the violence, vampire.” Morwenn dismissively examined her long, teal talons. “I can see perfectly well what she is to you. Though, I should warn you both, that in the realm of the Fair Folk and of every creeping, clawing thing you can imagine,” she added, explaining very slowly for Lilac, “any relationship between Daemon and mortal are considered… irregular. At best.”
