Bright Burns the Night

  For Kerstin, who has always gone above and beyond and whose generosity knows no bounds.

  And for Katie, who has championed me from the start. Without you, none of this would be.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  MAP

  THE SWAN

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MORE BY SARA B. LARSON

  COPYRIGHT

  SHE SLID THROUGH THE SILENT, STILL WATER, A GHOST in the darkness. As white and soundless as snow. She was alone for the moment, but the flock was close behind. She sensed their presence, across the lake they always returned to, no matter how far they flew.

  A chill laced the breeze that ruffled her feathers with a hint of winter. She turned her face toward it, breathing in the telling scents it carried. Wood fire and decay, dying leaves, and the musk of Draíolon. A part of her remembered long legs that carried her through the forest much like her wings carried her across the wind now, and words that passed across lips that could speak, scold … kiss … But allowing herself to dredge up that part of who she had once been was fraught with pain. And so she retreated into the comfort of the swan.

  As time continued its relentless march forward, slowly the burning, aching pain in her breast, the unsettling sense that part of her was gone, missing—she refused to let herself think of the blood, of the pain, of the terror—began to fade. There was the wild, untethered call of the wind and water. The simplicity of hunting for food and staying alert, staying safe. Natural instincts that comforted and erased. There were predators to avoid and a flock to attend to. They looked to her, the newcomer in their midst, suddenly one of them … but not quite. Slightly apart, slightly different.

  Because once she had been a Draíolon.

  Once she had been a queen.

  With more time perhaps those memories would fade completely, erased by this new form. Perhaps the love and loss and pain that had made up her other life would someday be replaced entirely by the beating of her wings. And the mournful trumpet she rarely used, the only voice to her despair, would become nothing more than an instrument to warn or call to others of her kind …

  Perhaps that could have happened, if it weren’t for the one week every year when he came and forced her back. Forced her to remember. Forced the pain and loss back into her heart. And every time she refused him, he sent her back into this body, this shape.

  Keeping her trapped as a swan.

  CEREN’S NIGHTMARES DIDN’T ALWAYS START THE SAME way, but they all ended with Evelayn kneeling on the dais before disappearing into the swirling smoke of Lorcan’s power and reemerging as a swan. He’d somehow forced her to shift that terrible night—something Evelayn hadn’t been able to do on her own yet—and then he’d torn the conduit stone from her breast, staining the white feathers crimson with her blood.

  When Quinlen was there, he knew to wrap his arms around Ceren and hold her silently until the terror and grief subsided once more. But on the nights when he was gone, like this one, she lay in her bed, shivering, desperately trying to force the memories back down so she could claim a bit more sleep from the painfully long hours of darkness. The dawn would only bring another dreary day of pretending to enjoy being a part of the new court King Lorcan had created … and fear. Fear of what had truly happened to her dearest friend and the former queen. Fear of how much longer before the power of the Draíolon of Éadrolan—diminished as it was—would disappear entirely. Fear of the gray, seeping cold that spread through their lands a little bit more every year that Lorcan ruled both Dorjhalon and Éadrolan. The murmurs grew louder every season. If they never found Evelayn—if she never regained her full power and position—would winter eventually rule the entire island, and then the world beyond, forever?

  Ceren shuddered and rolled to her side, staring into the darkness, toward the wall that divided her and Quinlen’s room from the nursery where their daughter slept. With Ceren’s acute hearing, she was able to catch Saoirse’s breathy sighs even through the stones and mortar. She was almost tempted to go in and pick up her youngling, to bury her face in Saoirse’s downy-soft red curls and breathe in the infant scent that barely lingered and would soon be gone completely. But Ceren knew she risked waking Saoirse, and her daughter was sure to make enough noise to then wake up her older brother, Clive. And if he woke up …

  Instead, Ceren closed her eyes and sent up a prayer to the Gods once again, pleading for help in finding and aiding Evelayn, for guidance given to Quinlen and all those who risked their lives trying to find the queen or another way to stop Lorcan, and selfishly for herself, to be able to go back to sleep and for once not be plagued by the blood-soaked dreams.

  It was the same prayer she’d recited every night for ten years, since the day Evelayn had disappeared and Lorcan had made himself High King of all Lachalonia.

  Though it had gone unanswered for all that time, still Ceren prayed. She prayed and she clung to what little hope remained in her that somehow, someday, her prayers would be answered.

  The slight creak of the front door opening jerked Ceren back to complete alertness. Quinlen wasn’t expected home until dawn … but she recognized his scent moments before he silently strode into their room, his normally perfectly groomed hair disheveled and his color high, as if he’d run home at full speed.

  “What is it?” Ceren whispered, sitting up in bed.

  Quinlen came to her and tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear as he sat on the straw-and-feather mattress. “Something has happened at the castle. A message arrived late tonight that has thrown Lorcan’s advisers into upheaval.”

  “Do you know what it is? Or who sent it?”

  “No.” Quinlen’s disappointment was a bitter tang on the chilly night air. “But the rumor is that the message was brought by something … other.”

  “I don’t understand.” Ceren glanced down at Quinlen’s hands, white-knuckled where he gripped his knees.

  “It wasn’t a Draíolon. They are saying that it was an Ancient’s emissary.”

  Ceren’s eyes widened. “An Ancient? How is that even possible?” She knew they still existed—Evelayn had bargained with one to get the silk that enabled her to defeat Bain, after all. But it was unheard of for an Ancient to reach out willingly to a Draíolon. Evelayn had risked her life when she’d gone to petition Máthair Damhán.

  Rather than responding, Quinlen stood back up and began to pace. “If Lorcan is somehow involved with an Ancient …”

  Their eyes met in the darkness. He didn’t have to finish the sentence. There were few Ancients left alive, and their power was diminished, it was true … but they were still capable of great and terrible things. Especially if aided by a king.

  “I need eyes and ears in the castle rig
ht now.” This last line was spoken to the floor. Ceren knew Quinlen hated to even ask, and she quickly threw off the covers, even though exhaustion weighed her body down like lead in her bones.

  “Of course I’ll go. Will you be able to stay with the younglings?”

  “No. I have to get back. But Merryth is almost here to stay with them.”

  Ceren nodded as she took off her nightdress and began to quickly pull on her clothes. She knew the castle better than almost anyone. Whenever they needed someone to essentially spy on Lorcan and his advisers, it often fell to her to try and sneak through the castle and gather what information she could.

  After she wrapped her bright red hair under a dark scarf, Ceren turned to face Quinlen—the male she’d Bound herself to shortly after Evelayn disappeared—and took a deep breath.

  “Someday, this will be over,” he murmured, the same words he had spoken for so long.

  One way or another, she wanted to say. But instead, she nodded and flashed him what she hoped was a confident smile, though he could probably scent her true feelings regardless. “Yes, someday soon.”

  He stepped toward her, drawing her in for a tight embrace, his entire body tense, the muscles in his back bunched beneath her hands. Ceren felt his kiss against her temple, but before she could lift her face to his, there was a soft knock at the door.

  “That will be Merryth.” Quinlen stepped back, releasing her.

  “I’d better go.”

  “Be careful.” His voice was quiet.

  “I always am.”

  Ceren hoped he couldn’t scent her fear as easily as she could scent the heavy musk of his worry as she turned and strode to the door, passing Merryth with a silent nod, and then on into the darkness toward the castle.

  THE BRISK BREEZE FROM EARLIER THAT DAY HAD finally quit, leaving the night chilled and still as he strode toward the lake, his footsteps sure, even in the darkness. His sharp eyesight didn’t require sunlight to make out the details of the forest around him. The skeletal branches of trees that should have been full of brightly colored leaves bent forward as if reaching for him. The hard ground was carpeted by the leaves that had fallen earlier than ever this year, already brown and trampled into the dormant earth.

  Ahead, the sound of water lapping at the rocky shore of the lake was barely audible. He lifted his face and inhaled deeply. She was there. He could scent her. There were times when he’d come to the lake and the flock wasn’t anywhere to be seen or scented—but never the week of Athrúfar. They were always there each night that he came.

  When he emerged from the forest, the flock of swans that had been serenely floating on the lake began to arch their necks, ducking their heads and flapping their wings in agitation. They moved to encircle the one in the middle who floated on the glassy surface of the lake with preternatural stillness. When she lifted her head enough to meet his gaze with those mournful violet eyes, the stone in Lorcan’s forehead flashed hot even as an icy fist clenched his stomach.

  “Come to the shore,” he spoke loudly enough for Evelayn to hear. “Your stubbornness causes discomfort to no one but yourself.” But, as with every other time, she gave no indication that she heard him, and remained unmoving, waiting for the inevitable. Did she understand him? It was hard to know. He’d never stayed in his hawk form longer than a few hours, certainly never weeks, months … years. And even in those hours, he processed information differently, he understood language differently. He was himself, but not—a large portion of his mind had to become that of the bird when he shifted.

  But the way she looked at him, the utter sorrow in the depths of those violet eyes …

  Lorcan steeled himself. There was no helping her situation—not unless she chose to help herself. And to that end, he finally summoned his power in preparation. It came swiftly, nearly overwhelming in its strength. Little had Bain known that his own son—not Éadrolan—was the biggest threat to his rule. Even before he’d become king, Lorcan had been stronger, faster, better than the other Draíolon he’d trained with—more powerful even than his father. But Lorcan had been very careful, and Bain had died never realizing just how strong his son truly was.

  That power built inside of him, eager to respond to his call, growing and expanding until, right at the instant the Athrúfar moon broke free of the dark eastern horizon—and moments before it would have consumed him—Lorcan extended his hands toward her and let it burst free.

  The familiar cloud rushed across the water, sliced through the flock’s futile efforts to guard her, and swirled around Evelayn’s swan form. She held his gaze steadily until the last second, when her long, pristine white neck arched back, her beak opened in a silent cry, and then she was gone from view, enveloped by the roiling darkness.

  The shadow twisted and elongated as the power surged out of Lorcan. At first it felt the same as it always had. But then … something changed. A strand within the power he’d summoned began to push back—to fight him. A new thread wove beneath the ones he’d used for the last decade, an unexpected—but incredibly strong—attempt to alter the outcome of changing Evelayn back, as if someone or something had somehow tapped into his power and was manipulating it to their will. He’d never experienced anything like it.

  There was no time to wonder how it was even possible. Lorcan ground his teeth together, straining to regain control. Evelayn was hidden from view, entrapped in the eddying darkness holding her hostage above the lake. But the scar on Lorcan’s right hand—the one he’d borne since he’d made his vow to her—flashed with heat, with pain. He felt more than heard a cry of agony that could only have come from her.

  “Stop it!” He bellowed uselessly at the night sky, even as he tried to still the trembling in his hands and finish manipulating her body as quickly as possible, despite the escalating pain traveling out of her and into his awareness, threatening to shatter his concentration. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead; a trickle dripped down his spine as he summoned every ounce of strength he possessed to fight back, to finish the process before he lost control entirely to the dark force that sought for dominance through him—through his power.

  And then finally, finally, with a sharp exhale, it was done.

  The cloud immediately dissipated until there was only Evelayn. Her long, lithe body hung suspended in the air momentarily, her dress more ragged than ever, her head still tilted up to the dark sky above, her lavender-streaked hair hanging lank down her back. But it was her—her true form. A Draíolon, the queen of Éadrolan. Despite the attempt at interference from the darkness beyond his sight, Lorcan had succeeded. For that brief second he couldn’t help the thrill that ran through him—the exultation at what he could do.

  But then her sorrowful eyes met his again, for a mere millisecond, and any pride he felt turned as cold as the frigid water she plummeted into.

  The water closed over Evelayn’s head, cold and suffocating, as it did every time she returned to her Draíolon form. But this time, pain—terrible, burning pain—also assaulted her, and when she tried to swim for the surface, the red-hot agony in her body was so shocking, so intense, it made her cry out, allowing her mouth and throat to fill with water. The change always hurt, but something had gone very, very wrong this time. She tried to kick up to the surface, but her legs cramped, and panic began to set in.

  Evelayn wasn’t even sure she was going up; she was disoriented and her lungs burned from the water she’d inhaled, threatening to steal her consciousness. What a terrible irony if, after everything, this was how she died. Refusing to give in, she redoubled her efforts, kicking harder and stretching her arms up, feeling for the other swans’ webbed feet, some way to gauge if she was swimming the right way.

  When her fingers brushed one swan’s leg, she kicked even harder, using the last of her strength to finally burst through the surface of the water into the chilled night air. Evelayn tried to gasp for air, but her lungs spasmed and she merely coughed, gagging on the water she’d inhaled, and then sank again.


  She kicked upward once more, but she was weak … too weak. And then a strong arm encircled her waist, and she was pulled into a large, muscular body. As soon as her head broke through the water’s surface, Evelayn inhaled deeply and succeeded in coughing up the water so she could finally draw a deep, ragged gasp of fresh, life-giving air.

  Only then did she turn to look at her rescuer and realize it was the very male who had done this to her in the first place.

  She shoved at him, trying to break free from his hold, but the male—Lorcan, that was his name, she remembered in a rush of deep-rooted memory—tightened his arm.

  “What are you doing?” He struggled to keep them both above water without letting her go, and inadvertently knocked a knee into her gut, sending a wave of nauseating pain through her body and forcing her to stop fighting to get free. “Do you want to drown?”

  “W-what … what did you do to me?” Evelayn croaked, hating how weak her unused voice always sounded in the first moments after the change, how hard it was to form words when she was so used to the limited noises of the swan.

  Lorcan ignored her and began to kick toward shore with powerful strokes. Evelayn finally allowed him, knowing she was too injured to make it on her own. Though she still couldn’t pinpoint what exactly was wrong—she only knew that something was different, and that she hurt. Badly. Oh, how she missed the power she’d once wielded—power that would have enabled her to heal in mere minutes, perhaps hours. But instead …

  The moment her feet brushed sand, Evelayn shoved against Lorcan’s hold, and this time he released her. She stumbled forward onto the sandy shore, falling to her hands and knees when her legs gave out. Before Lorcan could attempt to help her again, she forced herself to stand, her skin washed out in the moonlight, water pouring off her long, unbound hair and the tattered remains of the dress she’d worn for a decade. The dress she’d worn that fateful night with Tanvir … before—

  That memory was fraught with pain worse than anything her body was experiencing at that moment, so she viciously cut the thoughts off as she lurched toward the nearest fallen log, her legs still unsteady.