Page 124 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
I’m riding with him again because my Guard all insist that it’s safest. In the hours since dawn, I’ve been told at least three times that in a court of ice, the best place for me is with the fire fae.
Lore blinks Jaro first, then Bree, then Drystan and me. But when I open my eyes and take the first breath of freezing air, I’m smacked in the face with a snowball.
“I didn’t mean it!”Lore protests. “I was aiming for the dullahan!”
But Jaro’s wolf is not impressed, shining out of his eyes as he rides between Blizzard and Wraith, deliberately keeping Lore away from me as we travel through piles of snow in a single file line with us at the front, and Caed at the very back, shivering in the only jacket he owns.
Tall coniferous trees loom over us, their branches heavy with yet more white. The hushed, peaceful atmosphere that only comes in winter is heavy here, broken only by the occasional caw of a bird from above. Combined with Drystan’s power keeping us both in a comfortable bubble of warmth, I feel no guilt in curling up in his arms and letting Blizzard carry us wherever we’re headed.
I’ve never seen this much snow before. My mortal village was lucky if we saw a dusting two or three times a year and it was never more than ankle high. This… this is beautiful. Some part of me can’t help waiting for the inevitable moment that the war corrupts it. Wraith is bounding through it, snapping great big flakes from the sky with exuberance that has Lore clutching at his fur with hoots of enjoyment.
“Are there any Fomorian camps we need to take care of here?” I ask, trying so hard to keep the weariness from my tone.
I argued tirelessly to keep taking back the forts on the northern shore, but already I’ve had enough of death to last me a lifetime, and the real battle is still on the horizon.
“No,” Drystan answers. “They’ve not yet launched any real incursions into this court. They rarely even camp on our side of the Torvyn.”
“The drakes don’t like the cold and the lack of clothes made it hard,” Prae mutters, drawing her own heavy furs around her tighter. “You ever get a frostbitten tit? I almost did once.”
“Need me to kiss it better?” Gryffin asks, and a bit of my saliva goes the wrong way, almost choking me.
My embarrassing coughing fit lasts long enough that the conversation has thankfully moved away from Prae’s breasts and back to the plans.
“So we’re not camping soon?” Caed sounds almost disappointed, and I don’t blame him.
He’s the only member of the group without suitable clothes for the snow. When I quietly asked where his furs had gone, they all pretended not to know anything, and Caed told me to drop the subject.
Males.It wouldn’t surprise me if this is some stupid ordeal they’ve set up to make him prove himself somehow.
“Do youwantto camp in this?” Jaro gestures around us at the piles of waist-high snow. “It gets colder at night.”
“Not as frosty as the winter fae’s hospitality!” Lore chimes in with a grin.
“They just don’t like outsiders,” Bree excuses, breath freezing before his face as he rides up beside us. Naris happily stridesontopof the snow like he was born for it, which I suppose he was. “It takes a little while for them to warm?—”
“I imagine it’s easier to get them to like you if you’re one half of a semi-legendary bardic duo and your father has the gift of charm.” Drystan’s comment earns him a poke in the ribs from me, but Bree just laughs.
“Yeah. I suppose that did help. But we’ve got the Nicnevin… Maybe if you Fomorians stop talking so much about starving them out, we’ll be fine.”
“Starving them wouldn’t have worked,” Drystan adds quietly under his breath.
I consider asking him why, but I doubt he’ll answer. He obviously doesn’t want Caed to hear.
“There will be occasions where we have to camp,” he says, a little louder this time. “But I will try to make them few and far between.”
With that vow, he nudges Blizzard into moving a little faster through the flurries of white.
The first sign of civilisation is the smoke. Soft grey plumes waft through the trees in whimsical clouds, speaking promises of warmth just ahead. Sure enough, houses come into view as we round the next corner of the invisible trail we’re on—and it is a trail, even though not much marks it as such except the occasional cervid-skull-topped cairn.
Their cabins are made of logs and crowned with so much snow that it would be impossible to discern them from the rest of the landscape if not for their dramatic triangular shape. Oddly, the doors are on the second floor, with steps leading up to them sheltered by the massive overhang of those incredible roofs.
The fae who walk between them are swathed in thick clothing that makes it impossible to discern any of their features, and I play with the fur lining my own cuffs nervously.
“You’ll be fine,” Drystan mutters. “Follow my lead.”
At the entrance to the village is a pair of conifers with rope strung between them above head height. They’ve been threaded with hag stones and the skulls of birds, which tinkle in the frosty breeze. Their presence is equal parts chilling and fascinating, lingering in my thoughts even as we ride into the stables and Drystan dismounts, lifting his hands to help me down.
“Lord Snowchild.” A high fae who must be the stablemaster halts us in our tracks, an unlit lantern held out in both hands like an offering as he bows his head.
