Page 106 of Realm of Nightmares
ChapterThirty-One
The Stygian Spine spit Maeve out at the base of a mountain so high, she couldn’t see its peak. All she knew was Diamarvh had been carved into its cliffside by the Lord of the Hunt’s fist and she would have to start climbing if she ever had any hope of reaching it.
Tugging her cloak snug around her, she started up the footpath. It was easy enough to navigate at first, winding up the mountainside, offering her splendid views of the Ether, the House of Death, and beyond. Nightfall was already upon her, but through the inky midnight skies, she caught sight of flickering city lights and the rugged silhouette of the eastern mountain range, where the dire wolves resided.
Suppressing a shudder, she continued her journey, grateful for the few evergreens sparing her from the intensifying wintry conditions. Their large branches and thick needles granted her a makeshift shelter, a protection from the cold. She kept her gaze on the ground, careful not to veer too close to the edge, avoiding any loose rocks or damp earth. But it seemed with every step, the temperature dropped. The air grew bitterly cold, the gusting wind strong enough to knock her off balance.
Gradually, the terrain became more treacherous and there were no longer any trees to keep the biting wind at bay.
Maeve found herself on her hands and knees at a steep incline, climbing over boulders so frozen by the winter, their frosty surfaces burned her palms. With numb fingers, she scaled the massive rocks, not caring that her knuckles were cracked and bleeding as the roughened slope fought her every step of the way. Higher she went, refusing to glance over the ledge, for now she was climbing in the clouds. Gray mist swirled around her, leaving the surface of the stones damp, nearly impossible to maintain a good grip.
But she didn’t quit. She couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.
Her muscles ached, spasming with each movement. Each breath of frosty air burned her lungs. She lost feelings in her toes, her fingers, and face, her flesh succumbing to the glacial temperatures. Snowflakes fell like scraps of lace, clinging to her shoulders and lashes. Her lips were raw, chapped, like they’d been set on fire. She had no idea how much further she had to go, only that it was too late to give up now. Digging her nails into the gravelly earth, she heaved herself forward, unwilling to turn back.
Another chilling gale slammed into her. This time there was nothing she could do to keep from trembling. Her teeth chattered relentlessly. She clenched her jaw so tightly that her temples throbbed in pain. Exhaustion spread through her, weakening her resolve. If only she could rest or simply close her eyes for a minute.
Maeve shook her head violently, shoving the thought from her mind. It was a fool’s mistake to fall asleep out in the elements. She might never wake up.
Just a little further.One more staggered step. One more breath.
But oh stars, she was weary.
She was on the verge of surrendering to fatigue when a faint glimmer caught her eye. It was a dark, reflective surface, like onyx or obsidian. Dense, archaic magic hummed along her skin, beckoning her forward. The familiar scent of orange blossom and cedarwood tugged at her senses, urging her to move, to come closer.
Maeve struggled to her feet, stumbling toward the beacon of night, only to halt in her tracks.
Towering around her, sculpted into the mountain, was a castle of gleaming black and slate stone. Its arched entrance curved upward, displaying two colossal doors made of ebony. Each frame was engraved with whorls and crisscrossed swords, a skull with rubies for eyes situated atop the hilts. Walls of mountain swept up on both sides of her, and four sconces protruded from the rock, flashing blue faerie fire that never dimmed nor died. Positioned on the far edges of the doors were two majestic and sleek stallions crafted from the finest silver marble.
She’d made it.
She’d arrived at Diamarvh.
Glancing around, Maeve staggered forward, unsure how to announce her arrival. Was she supposed to knock?
Maeve raised her fist, prepared to strike the wooden doors, when they groaned open. Standing on the other side of the threshold was the most unnervingly fearsome being she’d ever seen. Terrifying, really. The pictures of the eternal warriors she’d seen in her book were nothing like the one who stood before her. He wasn’t quite spectral, yet not exactly a fully fleshed male either. Like he was caught in some kind of bizarre stage of life and death. He was muscled and chiseled, but his pale skin was nearly translucent. Decked in full armor, he looked ready for battle. The insignia blazoned across the front of his chest piece was the same as that which marked the door. His hand lightly grazed the hilt of the sword fastened at his waist and they stared at one another, neither willing to speak.
If he intended to disarm her with his unnatural silence, then he would lose. Wild Huntsman or not, she would not be afraid.
He angled his head, inspecting her. “Did you climb all the way here?”
She glanced down at her filthy, blood-stained clothing, assuming the answer was obvious. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you fly?” Lines of concern rippled across his brow. “You have wings, do you not?”
“Fly?” Maeve gaped at the Huntsman. “Don’t be ridiculous, I—”
Fly. Did she have wings? She was Archfae, wasn’t she? Of course she had wings. But then why couldn’t she remember…
Snippets of her conversation with the goddess Danua clicked into place. Her memory. She was losing her memory. Rolling her shoulders back and lifting her chin to a degree of authority, Maeve spoke. “I’ve come to see the Lord of the Hunt.”
In turn, however, the Wild Huntsman remained steadfast, his face devoid of emotion.
She gritted her teeth against the slight. “I am Maeve Ruhdneah. High Princess of Autumn, blessed with the soul of—”
He lifted one hand, silencing her. “Maeve’s enough.”
Furious with the bastard, she crossed her arms, leveling him with her best glare. “May I see him?” she ground out.
