Page 67 of Void of Endings


Font Size:

Tiernan stormed toward the gates.

“Where are you going?” Ceridwen called after him, her voice pitching.

“To get her back.”

Merrick jogged alongside him. “My lord, you can’t go after her by yourself.”

Tiernan tossed his mate’s words at his hunter, biting them off in a growl. “Watch me.”

He stalked forward, then halted.

Rowan stood before him, a slow swirl of shadows crawling around him.

“Move,” Tiernan ground out.

The Nightweaver didn’t yield. He rocked back onto his heels, lifting one brow. “You’re making a mistake.”

Tiernan closed the distance between them, glaring as the ferocity of their magic lashed out at one another. “I said get out of my way.”

Rowan inclined his head, considering. “You don’t even know where to find her.”

“I’ll figure that out when I get there.” Tiernan reached out, ready to shove him out of the way, but Rowan caught his arm with one hand.

“Focus, High King.” Rowan’s lavender gaze narrowed. “Where’s the one place that could tell you exactly where she’s located? The onethingthat canshowher to you.”

Tiernan went still as Rowan’s words sank in, as he finally understood. “The mural.”

Fuck. Again, Rowan was right. As he had been about many things. Not only the mural, but about Maeve. If Tiernan had only let her fight her own battles, then she never would have stalked off in a fit of anger.

He glanced back at the courtyard.

Merrick and Brynn had hoisted Lir’s arms over their shoulders, helping him to remain upright, while Ceridwen was attempting to comfort Saoirse. The silver-haired warrior bared her teeth, looking as though she was ready to kill every single one of them.

He turned back to Rowan. “Will you help me?”

Tense beats of silence passed between them, and then Rowan bowed. “I give you my word.”

Tiernan nodded. “To the library.”

They set off through the open-air corridors in silence. Tiernan preferred it that way. His mind was a whirlwind of formulations and strategy. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t do it alone. Oh, he’d get close. Possibly within a few feet of Maeve, if he was lucky. But Parisa would set her horde of dark fae upon him, and not even his magic would be enough to fend off all of them by himself. Ciara might agree to help, and Tiernan knew Dorian would stop at nothing to save his daughter, but without Brackroth and Wenfyre’s support, they’d be slaughtered. Going after Maeve wasn’t a part of their plan. In fact, it was likely the one thing they’d never even considered. Her capture thwarted their agenda.

Tiernan shoved open the door to the library and strode toward the desk right below the mural. He stared up at it, set in its gilded frame, while murky colors churned in tandem, as though it was breathing of its own accord. Gripping the back of the chair in front of him, he prepared himself for the worst.

“Show us Maeve’s location.”

The fog-like clouds drifting across the mural eddied, revealing a palace on a cliff overlooking the Lismore Marin. Mist curled around the base of the castle, its slate walls and sweeping terraces were overgrown with ivy and wilted flowers. Bits of rock crumbled from the dingy towers, and a tarnished gate guarding the entrance groaned open on broken hinges, swaying slowly in the breeze. All around, a steady drizzle fell down from the gray skies, dampening the earth. Yet it was no longer green and lush. The land was rotting, full of decay and nearly barren. But the mural revealed nothing else, only the Crown City of Spring’s once lavish palace.

Suvarese had fallen into disrepair.

Tiernan glanced down, sharing a look with Rowan.

Rowan pressed his lips into a firm line and glared up at the mural as though it had somehow personally affronted him. “Show us the Dawnbringer.”

Again, the mural billowed, and this time it displayed a dungeon.

Dull amber faerie fire flickered softly, illuminating a small cell. Cast in shadows and shreds of flaxen light was Maeve. She sat on a dank stone floor, with her back against a wall and her knees pulled into her chest. Her armor was mostly intact, and her rose gold hair was shoved back from her face, soiled with sweat and filth. She’d crossed her arms and a hard line crinkled across her brow. Maeve didn’t look afraid.

She looked furious.