79. Roots of the throne

A cold, bright light trickled down between the broken roof slates, pooling in the purple circles around Min's eyes. She had been awake all night, first Casting a Veil on Ada until her mind grew weak, then pushing her body even further as she escaped into Wysthaven. Min had done so much—been so brave—and here was the moment Ada could repay it all.

"I can't go through those doors with you, Min." Ada took the girl's hands. "Make a pact with me. Go back down the tower and find somewhere safe to hide. If you hear the fighting move away, do whatever you can to return to the Stone Circle and find Armestrong."

"What?" gasped Min. "No! I won't leave and I won't make any dealings with you. I came here to help you!"

"You have, Min," Ada said. "You've helped me so much and now it's my turn to help you. Make the pact with me so I know you'll be safe. I can't... I can't lose you, too."

"And what are you dealing with me?" Min demanded.

"Your life, Min," Ada said softly. "I think I'm finally doing what Florentin would've wanted me to do."

Min's face crumpled at the mention of her father; hurt, betrayal, and loss all awash in her eyes. A tear trailed down her cheek, which Ada stroked away.

"A deal, then," Min finally said, refusing to look Ada in the eye. "I will not enter through those doors with you, and if I am able, I will return to the Stone Circle and find Armestrong."

"Thank you," Ada breathed, pulling Min to her chest and holding her tight. They clung to one another as if their hands alone could lift all the pain from the other's shoulders. But then, they broke apart, and Ada pushed Min gently towards the stairwell.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have stayed with you until the very end, Min," Ada said, her voice threatening to break. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

She saw Min tremble, the curls of her hair bobbing like a sob had been swallowed, then she stepped down and disappeared into the shadows.

Alone in the vestibule, Ada forced herself to face the doors. She could feel a thin sheen of sweat on her palms, the chains slipping slightly as she unwound them. They clattered together, chillingly loud, and she flinched when they finally coiled to the floor.

It seemed to Ada that she was walking through a nightmare, her mind a fog of sleeplessness and terror. Was it honestly possible that she had tumbled into the fae world and survived this far with a faerie-tale of her own? Would she ever be able to tell her tale to another—watch them shake their head at her wild imagination—or would it be lost to sleep? Or, perhaps, lost to a far worse fate that lay ahead of her now in a terrible but true reality?

The doors drifted open at the brush of her fingertips, and inside was an ancient chamber carved from a pale rock. Pillars circled out from the two doors, carved like tree trunks whose branches wove the domed ceiling above, and between them, Ada could see faded paintings that marked the walls. There was a tower cobbled deep within a valley, then a flourish of white waters flowing down a flowering grass bank, and an ornate compass etched within stone. The stories of Wysthaven adorned the chamber, hidden away and crumbling to the turns of time.

At the back of the room was a throne built from the dark boughs of a tree, almost black aside from the glitter of dried baubles of amber sap. Roots bulged inexplicably from its base into the stone floor, like black serpents breaching an ivory sea. And there, sat upon the throne, was the Lady of Wysthaven. Ada hadn't seen her at first, for behind the throne was a great hole in the chamber wall, the morning sun framed blindingly bright between the throne's many branches. Yet, the Lady simply sat there, as if she had been patiently waiting, her black eyes fixed upon the doors.

Ada's breath stuttered and she came no closer. But the Lady merely blinked, slow and stiff, like her own sight exhausted her. She was ancient, Ada realised, her skin dragged down under the weight of centuries. Long, silvery hair hung into her lap, and she wore a threadbare dress embroidered with flowers, though most had now unravelled into their strings. The dress was overlarge on the old woman's shrunken body, and she looked less a lady than a doll tossed onto a wooden throne.

Something shifted at the Lady's feet, its form as dark as the roots it lay amongst, and Ada's hand twitched towards the iron dagger still strapped beneath her skirts. Then a pale face turned towards her, dark eyes and wicked mouth stained red with blood, and she gasped.

"Raeph," Ada said, her voice nearly failing in her horror. "Oh, please no. Raeph?"

His eyes were wells of blank despair, and when he could hold her gaze no longer, he pressed his face again to the floor, back shaking and fingers twisting into his matted hair. Ada watched as the Lady reached down, her thin hand settling on Raeph's head, and his shaking ceased as she stroked her fingers down his neck.

Ada wanted to scream. She wanted to curse the Lady, curse Raeph, curse the whole city of Wysthaven. But a cold clarity was hardening within her head, and she knew then that she wouldn't let this be the end. She wouldn't fall to any one of the fae or lose herself to Wysthaven. She would return home, no matter the cost.

She forced herself to focus, refusing to allow her horror and hatred to show, and merely watched the old lady's fingers settle on Raeph's nape. Short, she realised. Her fingers were too short. In spite of her age and devastating power, the Lady's whole body looked stunted and frail above Raeph.

"You're human," Ada whispered. "That's why you can stay in this tower. The iron doesn't hurt you like it does them."

The Lady was staring at Ada again, though she saw her fingernails tighten on Raeph's skin.

"Half-fae," the Lady said, her voice unnervingly stronger than her body. "Bound to neither iron nor an impotent, human life."

In her shock, Ada couldn't keep her eyes from flickering to Raeph. How had he never told her this likened part of the Lady's identity? But still, he kept his face lowered.

"You've come for him," the Lady mused, her fingers finally lifting from Raeph's neck. "But I am afraid that my Wolf is exactly that. Mine. He would never leave my side."

Riddles and lies, Ada thought, that was all this was. Raeph had told her his disgust for the Lady of Wysthaven. He had given Ada his name. She trusted him. "You've trapped him with you! He has no choice!"

"He has every choice!" cried the Lady. "Choice just as every one of us has in our miserable lives. I am neither binding him with my touch nor my words, yet still, he stays."

"You've bound him by his brother," Ada whispered, and saw Raeph flinch.

"Love," said the Lady, "bound him to his brother. Just as it has doubtlessly bound you, so foolish were you to come here for him."

She reached a hand between the branches of her throne, finding a small space somewhere behind her, and drew out a wooden box. It was as dark as the throne, whorls running through its wood like the black tides of an ocean. In an instant, Ada recognised it, a near-perfect match for the iron dagger's sheath, and indeed, for all the wood in the ancient chamber. Wystwood.

The Lady opened the box smoothly, for it had no lock or key, and a foul odour filled the room. Ada gagged, first for the smell, then for the sight of the clotted heart still beating in its little wystwood box. Raeph didn't move, though she could hear his laboured breathing, and knew that the heart had once belonged to Samael.

Ada smothered her cry of fury, but couldn't stop her hand darting between the seams of her dress. She wrenched the iron dagger from its strap, felt its strength between her fingers, and lunged between the stone pillars. Then, the box snapped shut, and in the Lady's other hand was the ebony dagger. She didn't point it at Ada, but gently set it against Raeph's throat.

"On your knees or I carve his neck straight through," said the Lady. In the centre of the chamber, Ada stopped immediately, the iron dagger grown hot and heavy. Her entire body was trembling as the Lady cocked her head. "And drop the knife."

The dagger slipped from Ada's hand and rang out as its iron hit stone. She tried to keep her legs from crumpling as she lowered herself down next to it, but the Lady said, "In front of me."

Leaving the iron dagger behind, Ada had little alternative than to step between the twisted roots and kneel on the other side of the throne. The Lady withdrew the ebony dagger and gave her a satisfied smile, teeth worn and grey, though Ada could only look at Raeph. He was still slumped amongst the roots, no longer shaking but horribly paralysed. Ada reached under the contorted wystwood until her fingers found his, and she breathed, "Raeph."

Finally, he raised his head. His eyes were cold and empty, his shirt ripped to shreds and the green ribbon gone from his wrist. He had never before looked so desperately alone, even with Ada's hand gripping his. When he parted his lips, she could see his skin was flaking around patches of his own dried blood.

"You shouldn't have come," he said.

"I had to. You know I had to," Ada replied, her throat becoming tight as his eyes remained empty. "We still have a pact together, remember? I got the iron dagger—it's right there!—now you need to get me the name of the Saltsworn. You can't break your promise now! You said you'd get me home!"

Ada hated the high hopelessness in her voice, and was so possessed with Raeph that she almost missed the Lady stiffen. She had been turning the ebony dagger in her lap, bones as sharp and narrow beneath her wasted skin, but now she exclaimed, "Saltsworn!"

And then, the Lady of Wysthaven was laughing.