An Artificial Night

THIRTY

THE FOREST WAS FULL OF SIGHS. There was no wind, but the branches bent against each other, whispering of pain and blood and loss. I was back in Acacia’s wood, and that was fine with me; she was the only thing in Blind Michael’s lands that I’d be sorry to leave behind. I turned, trying to get my bearings. I’d been standing in the wood when the darkness cleared, already awake. The Blood Road had been the least painful passage of the three. That was probably because it was supposed to have the most painful ending.

Something was wrong. The darkness around the trees had deepened, and the underbrush was wilting. The wood had been the one place in these lands that felt alive, and now it felt like it was dying. “Acacia?” I called. There was no answer.

Oh, root and branch. She helped me before the Ride; she stayed behind to talk to her daughter when the Ride was broken. Blind Michael must have seen her. These were his lands, and he was obviously stronger than she was. The loss of the children would have weakened him. He’d need someone—anyone—to make an example of. Acacia was no innocent, but she wasn’t guilty either; not this time.

I pulled the sword off my shoulder and started to unsheathe it, unwilling to cross the plains without a weapon in my hands. My palms slipped on the pommel, and I looked down. Blood covered my right hand, flowing from a thin cut that had opened, painlessly, across my wrist. There were no signs of clotting; it just kept bleeding.

“The Blood Road,” I said, understanding. There would be more cuts, and more still, until I bled to death where I stood. It wasn’t what I’d expected, but it wasn’t a surprise, either; I was on a time limit. I knew that already. I’d never had forever—forever isn’t something changelings get—and now time was running out. Blind Michael still had to die.

Time was short, the night was long, and everything was on his side. Everything but me, and the blood. Blood had shown me the way when it was mixed with wax and bound into a candle; why wouldn’t it help me when it was pure? “How many miles to Babylon?” I whispered, rubbing blood across my lips before I took off for the forest’s edge, running through the trees and into the mist-shrouded night. The blood knew the way, and so I trusted the blood, not questioning my steps as I ran into the gray. Before I’d run very far, I could see the distant glow of the fire burning in the clearing of Blind Michael’s village. The Riders were gathering again. Good. That meant that he’d be there for me to find.

At least the realm wasn’t actively hindering me. I stumbled on a few rocks, but that was only to be expected; I was running over ground I couldn’t see, and if I hadn’t tripped, I’d have thought that I was running into a trap.

I really need to learn to think more.

I could hear the Riders shouting when I was barely halfway across the plains. They sounded pissed, and I couldn’t blame them; from their perspective, the Luidaeg and company had interfered with their big holiday parade. Of course, their big holiday parade consisted of kidnapping and brainwashing, but what’s a little horrific torture between friends? There was nothing left to distract me and no one left to save. It was almost a relief; sometimes it’s nice to get back to basics. I’d kill Blind Michael or die trying. Kill or be killed. Live or die.

A cut had opened on my forehead, and blood ran into my eyes as I ran through the village, heading for the light. No one stopped me, not even when I burst into the clearing, screaming, “Michael!”

The whole Court was there, gathered for whatever celebration I was interrupting. It was too much at once. I stumbled, surprised, and two Riders stepped out of the crowd to grab me, pinning my arms to my sides. “Fight me, you bastard!” I kicked wildly, trying to free myself. They just laughed.

Blind Michael was sitting where I’d known he’d be, high on his throne—the small part of me that wished I’d finished the Ride always knew where he was. For that traitorous part of me, he was still my god.

He must have seen that tiny part of my heart shining in my eyes, because he laughed, saying, “So the prodigal returns, as I knew she would. I had enough time to work on her. Let her come to me.”

The Riders let go of my arms and fell into line with the others, forming a wide circle around their lord. Probably wise. If I lost, they’d be right there to get the body; if I won, they’d be close enough to take me down. Pessimism really doesn’t improve most situations.

I glared at them, spitting blood onto the ground as I walked toward Blind Michael. He was wearing the armor he’d donned for the Ride, but the mirrored sheen was gone, buried under dust and smears of dried blood. His supernatural composure was gone as well, replaced by an expression of angry irritation.

He only held my attention for a moment. Then it was drawn to the chair next to him, where Acacia sat, yellow eyes wide and empty. Her hair was woven into the chair’s wicker back, locking her in place.

“What have you done to her?” I demanded.

Blind Michael frowned, brows knitting over ice-white eyes. “Don’t speak to me that way.” His words held the weight of commandments. I felt another cut open on the inside of my left arm, adding its silent trickle of blood to the rest. “Never speak to me that way.”

It was hard to move with him staring down at me like that, but I managed to raise one hand to my mouth, licking fresh blood from my fingers. The pressure of his words and gaze subsided, fading to an annoying buzz at the back of my mind. My power has always come mostly from the blood. Not even he could touch me while I had it.

“I’ll speak to you however I like,” I said. “Now get down here and fight me.”

“Why?” He narrowed his eyes. My vision fragmented, coming from every direction at once as he forced me to look through the eyes of the Hunt. “You’re mine. Why should I fight what belongs to me?”

“I’m not yours!” I shouted. There was a brief, stabbing pain as my sight returned to normal. I couldn’t trust it to stay that way; he was too close to me.

“You Rode. You’re mine.”

“I stopped before the end.”

“It doesn’t matter; you belong to me. Everything here belongs to me.” He turned and ran his hand down Acacia’s cheek, almost tenderly. There was love there once, before he twisted it out of shape. “How should I scar her this time? Last time she betrayed me, it was her face. What should it be now? She’s suffering for you. You have some say in her pain.”

“Let her go, Michael.”

He turned back toward me, smiling. “Why should I?”

“Because if you do it on your own, I won’t have to force you.”

He actually laughed. “Oh, little changeling, Amandine’s bastard daughter. What makes you think you can make me do anything? Perhaps if you’d taken my kindly offer and become my lovely bride, you might have held some sway, but you turned that offer aside. My sister’s protections aren’t on you now. She can’t save you.”

“Then I’ll save myself.” I glared at him, spitting out another mouthful of blood. “I didn’t come here for her.”

“No, you came for yourself. Stupid little hero.” He reached between the cushions of his throne and pulled out my knife, pressing it against Acacia’s unscarred cheek. His smile didn’t waver. “It’s a wonder any of my father’s children—or grandchildren—have survived.”

“Give me back my knife and let her go.”

“Why should I?” He didn’t bother to turn. “Kneel.”

I was on my knees before I realized what he’d said. Hitting the ground opened more cuts on my legs and knees. Swell. We were bantering while I bled to death. “Bite me,” I snarled, forcing myself to stand. It wasn’t easy; my legs kept trying to buckle underneath me.

“Pretty words, but you’re not strong enough. Go die somewhere else.”

“Make me,” I said, gritting my teeth but managing not to fall again. Blood was running into my eyes; I wiped it away with one hand. Then I paused, looking down in disbelief.

My candle was lying near the base of his throne. I hadn’t been able to hear it singing to me under all the fresher blood, but as soon as I saw it, I knew it for my own. That made a certain amount of demented sense: they obviously didn’t clean up much around here, and once I’d thrown it away, it was just trash. I’d given up its protections—but that was then, and this was now. If I could reach it, I might still be able to get out by a candle’s light.

“I’m not going to die,” I said.

“Aren’t you?” He smirked. “A pity. If you won’t die, it’s not worth my time to kill you.” He turned back to Acacia, drawing my knife down the side of her face. Her eyes stayed glassy and unfocused, even as the blood started running down her cheek.

Blood ran down my fingers and along the length of Sylvester’s sword as I leveled it at him, the metal gleaming purple and gold in the firelight. “Leave her alone and fight me!” I shouted. “Be a man, you bastard, not a god! Or are you too afraid?” My last word rang through the square like a battle cry. It was a challenge he couldn’t ignore after the failure of the Ride.

Blind Michael dropped my knife into Acacia’s lap and stood, sightless eyes narrowed. “Do you really think you can challenge me?” he rumbled. “You, who have turned your heritage aside to live as less than nothing? You’re a fool, October, daughter of Amandine. Have you forgotten your god?”

“I’m more of an atheist, really,” I said.

“I see.” He smiled, extending an empty hand toward me. I thought I heard the Riders around us shout in triumph; then they were gone, voices fading as the mists surged up to block the landscape. “But church is such a quiet, welcoming place. There’s no pain there, little changeling. No death. No need for swords.”

The sword in my hands vanished, swallowed by the mist. I clenched my fingers together, trying to find it, but touched only air. I looked up, furious—and met Blind Michael’s empty eyes. His smile didn’t waver. I couldn’t look away.

“No pain,” he whispered. “No death, no need to fight. Come back, little changeling. Come back to me and be with me forever.”

The whiteness of his eyes expanded, just like his sister’s, and I was drowning. “I’m not yours,” I said, forcing the words out one by one. It was getting hard to move or think, and something in the back of my mind was shouting hosannas, ready to leap back into his arms.

How much of me belonged to him? How much of me was ready to betray the rest? I sucked the inside of my cheek, trying to use the blood I knew was there, but I couldn’t taste anything; his magic was too strong, and he wouldn’t be caught that way twice.

“I don’t want this,” I whispered, aware of how weak I sounded. He took another step toward me and I dropped to my knees, staring up at him. There was no pain this time. Either I’d lost more blood than I thought, or he was just that strong—and either way, the odds were good that I was screwed.

“Why not?” he asked, pressing his hand against my cheek. My vision was struggling to fragment back into the multiplicity of the Ride. I caught fleeting glimpses through other eyes, watching a changeling bleeding to death as she bowed before her lord and master. “You’re lost without me.”

Oh, oak and ash, Luidaeg, Sylvester, Quentin, I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing this time. I thought it was important.

“I’m not … lost …” He was filling the world. There was nothing left but Blind Michael and the mist, and the brief, fractured visions I was stealing from other eyes.

“Oh, but you are,” he said. “You’re lost. You can’t get there or back again; not anymore. Now close your eyes and let me take you home.”

Home? Home. It sounded like a wonderful idea; all I had to do was close my eyes, and he’d take care of everything else. He’d make the world everything it was meant to be. I knew I was bleeding. I knew his home was nothing but enchantment and lies. It still sounded right, and I was so tired …

I lowered my head, shivering. I’d have the strength to try this once; if I failed, all bets were off. “Yes,” I whispered. “Take me home.” Blind Michael straightened and removed his hand from my cheek, confident again now that he’d won me back.

That was what I’d been waiting for.

He stepped away and I lunged, scrabbling in the dust. The ground had no texture; it was just mist. Behind me, he laughed. “What are you doing, little changeling? What are you hoping to find?”

My hand hit something and I grabbed it blindly, hoping. There was a brief, stabbing pain in my forehead as the taste of blood filled my mouth, and then my candle was bursting into flame, bright blue and gleaming like a star through the dissolving mist. Jackpot. I stood and turned to face Blind Michael, wiping the blood out of my eyes with my free hand.

Every visible inch of me was covered in blood, running from the nearly countless cuts covering my body. It was getting harder to focus, and not because of anything that he’d done; the Blood Road demands its tolls. “I will not go with you,” I hissed.

He looked almost frightened. Good for him. Sylvester’s sword was lying in the dust between us; he stepped toward it and I advanced to meet him, the candle held in front of me like a shield. “Do you really think you can threaten me?” he demanded.

It would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t been shaking. “Yes,” I said, and smiled. My mouth tasted of blood, and for once, that was a reassuring thing. As long as I could taste the blood, he couldn’t catch me.

Blind Michael lunged, going for the sword. He was closer than I was, and so I didn’t even try to beat him; I jumped back instead, grabbing my knife from Acacia’s lap. “Come on, Michael. It’s not even a fair fight. You’re older and stronger than I am. Now take me down!”

He clutched Sylvester’s sword, expression telegraphing his unease. When was the last time anything truly frightened him? The Riders were whispering in the darkness, but none of them were stepping forward to help him. He was fighting me alone. “You’re beneath me,” he said, trying to sound confident.

“Doesn’t sound like you believe that,” I said. Baiting him was fun, but I didn’t have time for fun. I relaxed enough to let his borrowed eyes tell him my guard was down, and then lunged.

It’s hard to fight what you can’t see, and Blind Michael couldn’t really see me. He had a hundred borrowed perspectives to use, but he was missing the most important one of all: his own. He swung wildly as I approached, and I didn’t even try to block. The sword hit my upper arm, opening a long, shallow cut between my shoulder and elbow. It was a glancing blow—it hurt, but not badly, and it wasn’t going to be crippling. Good. My own attack depended on him thinking he could win, if only for a moment. He thought he had the upper hand; I could see it in the way he let his blade dip, not bothering to brace for a parry.

My shoulder hit him in the chest, bowling him over. He hadn’t been expecting that. Idiot. I had nothing but a knife, while he was wearing armor and had a sword—where, exactly, was the benefit in attacking him directly? Disarming him was a much better approach.

He hit the ground hard, Sylvester’s sword skidding out of his hand. I landed on his chest, bracing my knees against his upper arms and pressing the edge of my knife against his throat. “What does it take to kill a god?” I asked, coldly.

“You can’t hurt me,” he said.

“Too bad you don’t believe that.” I bore down, pressing the blade harder against his skin. My blood was falling over everything, making it impossible to tell whether I was really hurting him. “How long since you did your own fighting, Michael? How long since you started hiding behind children?”

“I—”

“How long?” I shouted. He stopped struggling, eyes closing, and I looked up to see the Ride staring at me in unified terror. They finally believed that I’d do it. That I was going to kill their lord …

And I couldn’t. Nothing I did would hurt him enough; nothing. He needed to suffer forever. I shuddered, letting my head droop as I tried to calm myself enough to slit his throat.

Then Acacia’s hand was on my shoulder, and a knife was landing in the dust beside me. “Kill him or let him go, Amandine’s daughter, but don’t torture him,” she said. “Make your choice. You haven’t got much time.”

I looked up. “Acacia—”

She looked down at me, the short tendrils of her hair curling around her face. When I distracted Blind Michael, that must have broken his hold on her, allowing her to rip herself free. “No. You let others make your choices too often. Kill him or let him live, but do it now. No more games.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You always know. You just don’t listen to yourself.” She shook her head, turning, and started to walk away. The Riders parted to let her pass, still silent, still staring at me.

Choices. Oh, Oberon’s blood, choices.

I put the candle between my teeth, keeping my knife pressed tight against Blind Michael’s throat. The flame licked at my cheek, filling the air with the hot smell of singed blood as I reached out and picked up Acacia’s knife. I almost dropped it when the metal hit my hand. Iron—it was made of iron. It would have to be; did I really think I could kill one of the Firstborn with silver alone? That was never an option. Not really.

My father was human; I can stand the touch of iron, if only barely. I forced my hand to close around the hilt, looking at Blind Michael through the thin haze of blood clouding my eyes. I was looking for my hatred, but I couldn’t find it. I found pity and anger, but no hate. He was insane. He hurt people because he didn’t know any better; he hadn’t known better for a long time. Did that absolve him of what he’d done? No. Did that make it right for me to torture him?

No. It didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t forgive you.” I lifted my hand, bringing the two knives together, and slammed them together down into his throat.

Iron slices through faerie flesh like it’s nothing but dry leaves and air. That’s what iron exists to do: it kills us. Silver can do almost as well, if you use it properly. Acacia’s knife was iron, Dare’s was silver, and I held them together as I thrust downward.

He screamed when the blades broke his skin; it was a high, childish sound, the last gasp of someone who thought he was invincible. My vision fragmented for an instant, shared between a hundred sets of eyes before the Ride fell as well, clutching their chests, eyes closing. For that moment, I was Blind Michael; I was broken; I was bleeding; I was dying.

And then there was nothing but blood. The tolls had been paid—I just didn’t know who’d paid them or whether it was done in time. Him or me? The age-old question. I slumped forward onto Blind Michael’s corpse, eyes closing. It didn’t really matter; he was dead, I had won, and I couldn’t fight anymore.

No more children would suffer because of him. In the end, I’d proved myself as a child of Oberon’s line, no matter how much I tried to deny it; I was a hero, and I was dying like one, and that was all right, because it was how things had to be. I let out a long, slow breath, relaxing at last, while blood ran down my cheeks like heavy crimson tears.

I was done.

The darkness was almost polite as it came for me, wrapping itself around my fading mind. I had time to wonder if the night-haunts would be able to find me in Blind Michael’s lands; then there was only darkness and the sweet taste of blood.

I was done.