Their whispers crest and fall. Waves of emotions, hidden and stark, flavor the air. All eyes are on the Fire Princess, and she, in turn, looks at no one; her back is straight, and her face must be devoid of expression. She has probably made this journey a million times in her dreams, walked these unknown paths to the center of the Caisleán and asked it to confirm her existence.

The Caisleán won’t talk to her. Will it? Not like it talks to us.

Croi shrugs. Ceara remains the Fire Princess no matter who her birth parents are. Croi and her inner self do not have the luxury of time nor the desire to challenge Ceara’s position. The thought makes Croi’s chest ache; she places her hand above her heart, pushing against the pain.

The spectating kin whisper louder as the Tine kin get nearer to the center of the courtyard where several servant-kin are preparing to receive them. Croi steals glances at the gathered kin, enamored by their color and their sparkle, their shining magicks, and their feverish energy.

Most of her attention, however, is on what normal kin aren’t able to see: the Caisleán’s magick, which is like a song that has lost its tune. Or a scarf whose threads have come undone. She, not it—though the Caisleán perceives gender in a very fluid way—is mourning. What or whom she’s mourning, Croi can’t tell, but her grief is immediate and urgent. Perhaps it is related to the missing HeartStone. Croi slips a hand into her bag to make sure the SoulSeed is still there once again, wondering if the dryad will be able to find the magick stone before the Saol ceremony.

The Tine King and his retinue come to a stop in the center of the courtyard, and Croi lifts her head to see Aodh looking at her, a concerned expression on his face. Croi looks away from him. She doesn’t need or want his concern.

Why do no birds sing here?

Croi widens her eyes and listens, and indeed, her other self is right. Unlike outside the Caisleán gates, no birdsong fills the air here. Below, the whispers of the Talamh kin are a trembling silence, one that not many kin seem able to comprehend. Croi shakes away a feeling of unease and gingerly slips off Enbarr, patting him on the side. He nuzzles her, and she gives him a hug. At this moment, Tinder flies over to her, almost a blur in her excitement.

“Haven’t you been to the Caisleán before?” Croi murmurs to her, holding on to Enbarr’s reins.

“Not in a very long time!” Tinder exclaims. She settles down on Croi’s shoulder. “And certainly not for the Saol ceremony!”

Croi looks at the kin milling around; the servant kin appear to know what they are doing, but Aodh and Ceara seem to be waiting for something or someone.

“What happens next?” Croi whispers to Tinder.

Murder and mayhem would be nice.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Croi admonishes her other self.