its scatter of tiny white sparflowers, where floating dandelion seeds gave the warm summer air a quality of otherworldliness. Neither he nor Connley wore much because of the heat, only trousers, and in Rowan’s case a loose sleeveless vest in dark blue that opened over his chest; in Connley’s case merely a leather thong from which hung two tawny ghost owl primary feathers.
Connley crouched in the meadow with his hands steepled against the earth and his dark curls a soft halo around his face, and Rowan realized what he was ready for.
He had considered it occasionally—sex, that is—and usually with Connley as his partner in exploration. That day the Poison Prince was so taken with the image of slender, dark Connley communing with the island flowers that he strode across the meadow and put his hand into Conn’s thick hair. He gripped it, hard, and slowly pulled a surprised Connley to his feet. Conn’s lips parted as he met Rowan’s passionate gaze.
Rowan used the leverage of his greater strength and height to draw Connley against him, then kissed him openly, eagerly, firmly.
Startled, it took the younger wizard a moment to respond; then he dug his fingers into Rowan’s ribs and smiled into the kiss.
The Ashling ghost screamed.
Because of her liminal existence, Rowan had never heard her voice fully before—the ghost was a whisper he could not quite parse, a breeze twisting counter to the gusting urgency of the island wind. But with his lips against Connley’s and their naked chests pressed together, her voice could be heard clearly:
Mine mine mine!
And then came a shriek more furious than an autumn gale, and it pierced the meadow, tearing away at the summer warmth.
Connley jerked back, but Rowan curled his fingers into a fist, still gripping the younger man’s hair.
The prince replied in the language of trees, He is not yours, Ashling bitch.
“Rowan,” Connley chided, his expression pained.
Rowan let go and Connley turned away, hands out placatingly. Rowan still tasted the flavor of Connley’s tongue.
My Connley. Mine, the Ashling Lady hissed. Cold, ghostly fingers slashed across Rowan’s face. He stomped his foot upon the meadow grass and shoved his hand against the air, palm flat. The gesture pulled at the wind and sliced through her wails, because he was the Poison Prince of Innis Lear.
Connley, the ghost said again.
“I’m sorry, Rowan,” Connley said mournfully. In the language of trees he said, Lady, do not fear him, or that you might lose me. I am yours. He brought one finger to the streak of ashes on his right cheek, as if to remind her he wore her tears.
That afternoon Rowan had conceded, leaving Connley in the meadow with his haunt, but as he stalked back to Hartfare the prince vowed to discover a way to neutralize her before she murdered his friend.
But in the heart of the night, as Rowan Lear slept on a low straw bed inside the duke of Hartfare’s summer cottage, he suddenly could not breathe.
The air in his throat froze, thickening with frost and bile, and Rowan woke, clawing at his neck. He flung himself out of bed, wide eyed, mouth moving open and closed: he could not whisper even in the language of trees. The ghost wrapped her cold spirit around him, pricking his skin and hardening his bones. Rowan charged outside, throwing himself through doorways and into the garden. He fell to his knees, and with sheer will controlled his body’s struggle to breathe. Head aching, he crawled along the furrowed earth, shouldering through rows of leeks and pumpkin vines, until he found the well at the edge of the yard.
Rowan used dirt-covered fingers to dig into his mouth, pulling at the frozen threads of magic. He tore them out, gagging, yet still could not breathe. Hissing laughter burned in his ears, skittering over his cheeks and his bare back like tiny whips.
But the Ashling ghost did not know of the bargain Rowan Lear had made with the rootwaters when he was only a child: at his distress, the well answered. Cold water seeped up through the stones, up through the earth itself, soaking the ground all around him and turning it to mud.
As his vision blackened to blotchy shadows so different from the nighttime darkness, Rowan used the rootwater mud to slap hash-marks in the language of trees across his chest, collar, and throat. Open, he wrote, and breath of wind and then his own name, which was as much a name of magic as hers. Rowan.