Page 67 of The Blood Queen

Killed because I couldn’t keep the High Blade out of Scotland.

Samson’s grip on my hand tightens as if he can read my dark thoughts.

“You see, don’t you?” Beira asks.

I nod. Because I do see—this many bean-nighe, this many articles of bloody clothing, can only mean one thing.

So, so much death.

“No,” Beira says without looking at me. “You don’t see.”

She holds her hand out, pointing with one long, dark-blue finger toward the center of the whirlpool. Snowflakes twirl like sparks around her slender wrist.

And from the center of the whirlpool, dripping crystals of ice, is a long, dark cloth. I squint in the darkness, realizing the truth at the same time as Samson breathes, “The plaid.”

This is the cloth the Faerie Queen wove. The black plaid with red-and-white strips, the warp and weft removed from the loom, the tangled threads at the top still a ragged mess.

I know that I’m not looking at the cloth as it is now, still in the Faerie Queen’s throne room, still protected by the giant spider. No, what I’m seeing rising from the whirlpool is the future of the plaid cloth. A future linked to a death.

My eyes scan the material. I don’t see any blood.

“There is only a single drop,” Beira says. She turns, white hair streaming behind her, to face me. “One tiny droplet, from a needle.”

For a second, her eye falls to my bodice, then back up to meet my gaze. I don’t flinch. I don’t give away that I know the needle she is referring to must be the one I hid in my dress, the Red Cap weapon.

“Whose blood?” Samson demands. “The High Blade’s?”

Beira does not look away from me when she says, “I am not sure. It is a small stain, but stubborn.” Like you, she seems to want to say.

I swallow dryly.

“Fate is woven,” Beira says, the storm almost swallowing her words. “A plaid cannot just be ripped. Each thread twisted together is strong. You will have to find the single thread to cut.”

Tension winds its way through my shoulders, squeezing. I was right. The key to victory is in the plaid, in finding the High Blade’s thread to cut, and that is going to take a drop of her blood to find the exact thread we need.

“Make sure you cut the right one,” Beira adds. Her gaze flicks down again, to where the needle is hidden.

My stomach tightens with doubt.

“And make sure you understand the cost of doing such magic.” Beira’s lips curl over her rust-colored teeth. “Playing with fate, girl? That will have a price you may not be willing to pay.”

17 Samson

Beira’s one eye looks past us, and I turn to follow.

Two stags stand on the ice behind us. They’re massive beasts, larger than normal stags, with stark white fur and ivory antlers reaching like spindly trees for the sky. They glow faintly, either emitting magic or surrounded by it.

My lips part in a huff of awe as their breaths steam the air and their sharp hooves chip at the ice.

“Go now,” Beira says, pointing at her stags. “They will carry you forth to where the High Blade is encamped.”

Alyth bows her head at Beira. “Thank you.”

I bow as well, catching Beira’s eye as I straighten. Alyth walks to the closest stag and mounts, but Beira’s holding my gaze, so I stay still.

The ice groans as Beira steps closer. Beside us, the washerwomen continue their frantic chore, heaps of bloodied clothes coming in fast from somewhere we can’t see, and on the other shore, three shadowy figures weave more.

Will we be able to prevent more clothes from joining the whirlpool? Will we be able to save anyone?