Mistrals Kiss   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

“I would that you could come to me, Uncles,” Sholto said.

Doyle’s arms tightened around me, a warning. “Be careful what you say, Sholto; you do not understand the power of the words of someone whom faerie itself has crowned.”

“I do not need advice from you, Darkness,” Sholto said, and again there was bitterness in his voice.

The sunlight faded, and a soft twilight began to fall. There was the sound of splashing, then Ivar and Fyfe came up upon the island. They were nude except for enough clothing to hold their weapons. They fell to one knee before him, heads bowed. “King Sholto,” Ivar said, “we thank you for sending the light away.”

Sholto said, “I didn’t…”

“You are crowned by faerie,” Doyle said again. “Your words, perhaps even your thoughts, will shape what will happen this night.”

I said, “I thought — only thought — that there is more than one variety of thyme, and it changed the herbs. What I thought about became real, Sholto.”

Agnes called from the shore, “You have freed us from the light, King Sholto. You have given us back the Lost Lake and the Island of Bones. Will you stop there, or will you give us back our power? Will you remake the sluagh while the magic of creation still burns through you, or will you hesitate and lose this chance to bring us back into ourselves?”

“The hag is right, Your Highness,” Fyfe said. “You have brought us back the magic of making, wild magic, creation magic. Will you use it for us?”

In the dying light I watched Sholto lick his lips. “What would you have of me?” he asked carefully. I heard in his voice what was beginning to be in my mind, a touch of fear. You could police your words, but policing your own thoughts — that was harder, so much harder.

“Call the wild magic,” Ivar said.

“It is here already,” Doyle said, “can you not feel it?” His heart sped under my cheek. I wasn’t sure I understood exactly what was happening, but Doyle seemed both frightened and excited. Even his body was beginning to react, pressed against the front of mine.

The two kneeling figures looked at Doyle. “Do not look to Darkness,” Sholto said. “I am king here.”

They looked back at him, and bowed again. “You are our king,” said Ivar. “But there are places we cannot follow you. If the wild magic is real again, then you have two choices, king of ours: You can remake us into a thing of flowered crowns and noonday suns, or you can call the old magic, and remake us into what we once were.