Free The Vanishing Throne by Elizabeth May

it takes so much longer for her breathing to slow.
    I made it out. And so shall you .
    It was Lonnrach. It had to be. Aithinne became like this the second she heard his voice. She spent two thousand years trapped in the mounds with him. Two thousand years for him to do to her what he did to me.
    â€œDid he—” I can’t say the words. So I touch her fingers to my marks. Did he try to mark you, too? Even though he’d never succeed, did he try? Did he steal your mind like he did mine? “Did he do this? Like mine?”
    Aithinne’s eyes open. They’re not silvery anymore, not molten. Now they’re as unyielding as steel, not emotionless, but cold and numb. “Worse,” she says, her hard voice slicing through me. “He did worse.”
    Now you know precisely how it feels to be that helpless .
    I don’t ask. I don’t want to picture how much worse it could have been for someone who doesn’t scar and who can’t die.
    Aithinne pushes to her feet, her emotions shuttered again. Her movements are stiff as she brushes the dirt from her coat. “We have to hurry.” She’s brusque, cool and detached. As if nothing happened. “Before the wind changes.”
    Before I can say anything, she starts down the path. I follow behind. Though I can’t see her face, the set of her shoulders remains tense. Her fingers are clenched into fists. I consider saying something—pointless chatter to fill the silence—but I don’t.
    I prefer the quiet, too. It gives me time to observe the landscape, how the sun is beginning to set across the loch on the other side of the bend, where the river empties. Stars fill the space between clouds and the landscape has darkened since we first arrived. I can hear the wind blowing through the trees above us, rattling the leaves and branches.
    Aithinne maintains a quick pace and I try to keep up. I stay focused on the path, never daring to let my eyes stray over the edge of the cliff. If I do, the dizziness comes back—so it’s one foot in front of the other, over and over again.
    Unlike me, Aithinne seems perfectly content on the trail. Her steps never waver. She still doesn’t speak, not even to ask infuriating questions. She keeps herself shuttered, a perfect study of indifference.
    Suddenly, she snaps her head up at the same time I taste Lonnrach’s power heavy on my tongue. Oh, hell .
    As one, Aithinne and I turn. Lonnrach is on the very far side of the trail, mounted on a metal horse with a dozen fae at his back.
    He sees us. I can feel his eyes on me. He’s in my mind, probing, pushing, gaining entrance—all because I accepted his food and drink. He whispers a single word: Falconer .
    It’s a command, that word. A simple command. Come back to me .
    Damned if I don’t take a step forward, as if I have no control over my body. No control over my mind. Aye , he says. That’s it. That’s it .
    Now you know precisely how it feels to be that helpless .
    I jerk back at the memory of Lonnrach’s words, breaking his influence. “ No ,” I snarl.
    I whirl so I’m no longer facing him. Beside me, Aithinne has frozen at the sight of him. I don’t have the time to soothe her, to say comforting words to bring her back. So I grab her coat and yank her down the path with me, my fist white-knuckled around the fabric.
    But Aithinne is still too distracted, and that’s all it takes. Her feet slip. She slides forward and nearly goes over the edge, but I grasp her arm. I dig my heels into the dirt and pull, straining hard, using my weight to wrench her back.
    Aithinne manages to recover just enough to gain her bearings and then we’re running again. We sprint down the treacherous path with the fae at our backs. They’ve dismounted their horses to pursue us on the narrow path.
    The ridge begins to quake. Rock cracks around us, as loud as cannons and gunfire. The taste of faery