Beyond a Darkened Shore(62)

The only things standing between the vile king and my kingdom was us.

I pulled free the Sword of the Fallen. It glinted in the light, and a faint hum came from within the blade. I met Leif’s gaze.

“What must I do?”





17





Leif crouched and touched his fingers to the ash and soot upon the floor. “Blood and ash is required for the ritual—your blood.”

I glanced down at the gleaming blade. It was as if it whispered what must be done, a quiet voice in my mind. “The sword must be anointed with blood and ash. What then?”

“Then you must say: ‘So the Phantom Queen’s blood flows in my veins, so shall I summon the army of the undead.’”

I stared at him. “You knew about the Morrigan.” I was in complete shock that he hadn’t said anything, and I flinched when I remembered what we’d both witnessed of the Morrigan—what must he have thought of me?

“I knew only that you shared blood, not that she was your mother.”

“You knew I was kin to such a gruesome being, and yet you . . . kissed me? And now that you know she is my mother . . . ?”

“My desire for you has not changed. What do I care who your mother is? I kissed you when I thought you were all Celt, after all.” He smiled teasingly, even amid the carnage at our feet, as only a Northman could. I couldn’t yet return it, but I appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

Relief that he hadn’t judged me for the Morrigan’s horrific actions bloomed in my chest. “I can’t express to you how much your words mean to me.”

“You could always show me,” he said, and his gaze dropped to my mouth. It brought a reluctant smile to my face, even as desire stirred within me. My breath stilled as he reached out and touched a lock of my hair. “Later, then,” he said.

I forced my mind back on the task at hand. “After I have performed the ritual, what will happen?”

“She didn’t say, but we’ll soon find out for ourselves.”

A trace of unease spread down my spine even as the Sword of the Fallen thrummed eagerly for my blood. I held out my hand, and with the other, made a shallow cut along the palm. Blood immediately flowed, and Leif took hold of my injured hand gently. He sprinkled the ash he had collected over the wound, the black soot mixing with the dark red.

All at once, my vision darkened at the edges, and all sound seemed to disappear. As though I had performed this ritual a thousand times before, I took hold of the blade of my sword and smeared the mingled blood and ash along it. It disappeared on the blade like water in the sun.

The church was still. I could hear my own heartbeat, the thrumming of the sword in my hand, and a louder pulsing—the heartbeat of another realm. I slammed the point of my blade into the floor and said the words that would summon an army powerful enough to save us all.

An earsplitting boom and a wave of power rippled outward. The bodies at our feet crumbled into dust, and the dust was sucked away by the wave of power, leaving nothing but the men’s weapons behind. The silence that descended after was deafening.

I took a shaky breath and pulled the sword free. A tremor began, the ground beneath our feet quaking with increasing intensity until the glass of the few remaining windows shattered. A cold fog descended, obscuring our vision. Leif grasped my arm and pulled me close to his side.

The quaking continued, and we braced ourselves for something terrible to come. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The fog ebbed, revealing a ghostly sight.

My father stood before me, two hundred men at his back. My heart sounded like the fluttering of birds’ wings in my ears. Gray-faced they stood before us. There was no scent of decay. They were devoid of any smell at all. They were completely outfitted in the same black armor as Leif and I, claymores strapped to their backs. The black of the leather was a strong contrast with the faded color of their skin. It was as though I viewed them from underwater. No details of their bodies aside from the armor they wore could be seen sharply. They were hazy, one foot in this realm, another in the next.

“áthair?” I asked, unsure if it was truly my father or merely something that resembled him.

“Princess Ciara, daughter of the Phantom Queen, we have heard your summons.” He made a fist with his hand and crossed it over his chest in a strange gesture of respect. The others immediately did the same. This, then, couldn’t be my father. But just as I doubted it, he said, “Though I never would have agreed to such a blasphemous ritual in life, after being shown the destruction that awaits éirinn without this army, you have my blessing.”

I bowed my head. “áthair, I’m glad for your blessing, because knowing I couldn’t defend you when your life was taken has nearly destroyed me.”

“It is not you from whom I crave vengeance.”

Before I could respond, a sound drew my attention to the back of the church. It was the sound of a hoof hitting the steps of an altar. A horse as black as pitch trumpeted an impatient whinny. “Sleipnir?” I said in a rush. “How?”

The warriors parted as my massive warhorse approached. His coat was as glossy as a raven’s feathers, with no hint of the trauma that had befallen him. But as he drew closer, I saw the difference: his eyes were no longer a horse’s warm brown, but rather the deep red of a wraith.