Page 118 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
Whatever steel I achieve in my tone is ruined by my yawn. I snuggle further into Bree’s arms, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to my forehead.
“Sleep,” he says. “We’ve got a little way to travel until the next shrine, and then maybe an hour after that to the next fort, and you need the rest.”
Thirty-Five
Drystan
Compromise is not a word I enjoy adding to my vocabulary.
Fae lords do not compromise. We order, and fae obey.
Unless, apparently, that fae is a Nicnevin whose stubbornness might even be equal to my own.
My sword plunges roughly into the chest of the Fomorian beneath me, cutting his miserable life short with a wet gurgle. Blizzard’s hooves stamp down, crushing his skull with a fierce whinny. Behind us, two spirits made flesh slowly dissolve into nothing, the scout they took care of crumpling to the ground. An answering rush of power quickly follows as Rose grounds her magic along our bond.
She kept to her side of the bargain, at least. No more than a dozen spirits at any one time, and she’s not stepped foot amongst all of this iron.
Begrudgingly, I do have to admit that it’s working. Her assistance over the last few days has been… helpful.
My whole body shudders, and I resolve to never ever mention that truth aloud. If she finds out, she’ll only put herself in more danger, and I’m not sure my heart can take much more of this.
The situation brings to mind a different bargain, one made in anger, but which is pressing ever more firmly against my consciousness with every step we take towards the Torvyn.
When Ashton took my hand during Rose’s time in Fellgotha, I promised that she’d enter Cedwyn’s court with a full knowledge of his hospitality. The trouble is, I’m not sure what the bargain will demand. How deep the confession I’m to deliver will claw into my past.
I have a horrible feeling that it’s going to make me tell hereverything. Not that I’m even certain where to begin on that torrid little tale.
Now, the Torvyn—the river between Autumn and Winter that the Fomorians guard zealously—is a little over two hours away. Every step we take brings us closer to a deadline I can’t ignore. I need to figure out what I’m going to do about it before the deepening chill gives way to snow flurries and treacherous mountain paths.
Rose is behind me, the floaty purple sleeves of her tunic blowing in the wind as she sits atop Wraith, surveying with sad eyes the now-dead pair of Fomorian scouts who chose to make this forest shrine their camp for the night. She rides more confidently now that she’s had some practice, and her fear of horses doesn’t seem to extend to Wraith.
It’s a good thing she’s doing so well with him.
Riding into Calimnel on a barghest will send a priceless impression of strength to Cedwyn and my mother. It might even put off their inevitable discovery of our Nicnevin’s soft, vulnerable heart until after he’s sworn his vow.
Dragging my gaze from her, I give the púca a calculating look, then scan the others. There’s absolutely no way in this realm orthe next that I want to tell my sordid tale in front of Caed and his cousin. I’d rather not say anything in front of the others, either, but the nosy assholes will never let us have a private conversation. Maybe I can get Bree to agree to use his magic to hide it from them…
No. I may hate it, but there are things they need to know too, for Rose’s safety if nothing else. I’m just going to have to swallow my Goddess-damned pride and talk through it.
At least this shrine is sheltered and away from prying eyes. The worn statue is nestled in a carpet of shamrocks beneath an ancient moss-shrouded tree. It’s fallen into disrepair, covered in dirt and lichen, until the features of the figure depicted and the words inscribed below are barely recognisable.
There’s no chance of us being overheard.
“We should make camp here,” I suggest, slipping from my saddle. “Rose can bless the statue while we wait for Lorcan’s return.”
It would be stupid to try and enter the Winter Court without him. I suspect he knows… enough of what’s transpired, given his age and covert mentions of my parents. The others are young by fae standards—under a thousand—and so most of this will be news to them.
Jaro dismounts wordlessly, passing me his reins as he goes to help our mate down from Wraith’s back. Mounting and dismounting are the only parts of riding she still struggles with, but she’s getting there. We wait quietly as she tiptoes up to the statue, laying her hand on the stump of what might have been a stone arm and murmuring something quietly.
Decades of dereliction fall away beneath her touch. The warm smile of the flower-crowned banshee and the embroidered folds of her dress becoming as clear as they were when she was made.
From below, a rock rises up, revealing itself to be her lost arm clutching an intricately carved sewing basket. The clover beneath her bursts into full, fluffy white blooms that should’ve been impossible in Autumn, making my nose itch, and some of the ones closest to her even spout fourth leaves.
I roll my eyes at Danu’s dramatics.
Rose crouches, reading the inscription at the base of the shrine.
I don’t like the morose blue permeating the soft edges of her shielded aura, so perhaps that’s why I interrupt her. “There are some things you should all know before we enter the Winter Court.”
