Page 135 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
“Good. From now on, if you do anything to put yourself in harm’s way, you know what will happen.”
Is that supposed to be a deterrent? Because I’m not sure he understands the concept. Goddess, I hope no one ever explains it to him.
His eyes, which were soft and cosy with satisfaction, light up as he focuses on something behind me, and he grins.
“Turn around.”
I’m already doing it, following his gaze into the cloudless night.
The glowing ribbon of light spreads outward from the north like a dancing rainbow of greens and blues and purples. It’s like cracks have formed in the sky, but even that description barely does it justice. It’s incredible.
“What is that?” I breathe. “Magic?”
“They have many names,” Drystan says. “The dancing spirits, the lights of the Otherworld… They’re common enough during the coldest part of winter, but a lot of the time the clouds are in the way. I thought we’d miss them, given how late in the year it is.”
He hasn’t answered my question, and I decide it doesn’t matter. The lights continue to twirl and dance overhead, and I burrow deeper into his arms, content to snuggle him beneath a shattered sky.
Forty
Rhoswyn
No one warned me the journey to Calimnel could get colder. I assumed—wrongly—that the mountain would be no worse than the foothills below, especially given we were wearing clothes which were twice as thick, destroying all traces of our natural figures, and sewn with charms down the front in two lines.
Yet now, ten days into our journey through the mountains, my eyelashes are so heavily frosted it’s hard to see. Jaro’s beard is flecked with snow. Cold is everywhere, and even Drystan’s magic and the winter queen’s necklace can’t make this situation any better. I almost want him to spank me again, just so my ass can remember what warmth is.
To make matters worse, we’re not the only ones enduring it. The fae are following us. A trail of lanterns in the distance mark their presence as they join the final stretch of our journey. They don’t approach, content to camp a respectful distance behind us, but their numbers are great enough that I can’t see the trail’s end. I can’t believe that anyone would willingly traipse uphere, but apparently, it’s traditional, and the fae do love their traditions.
“Do we really need the Winter Court army?” I wonder aloud as we cross a ridge so steep that I don’t dare to look down. “I mean, we have Autumn and Spring.”
“Autumn’s army is decimated, and Spring’s is mostly seelie,” Bree points out. “Winter has the largest force of all, because the Fomorians haven’t attacked them yet, and their unseelie gifts are more likely to be of use.”
“Until Elatha neuters them all with iron poisoning,” Caed mutters.
“Oh, come on, without me there to hold things together, Draard won’t be able to figure out which end of the weapon to shove in the ground,” Prae says, rolling her eyes.
She, Caed, Jaro, and Gryffin swapped their mounts at the last village before the ascent, leaving their horses behind in exchange for the strange, squat fluffy ponies that are better suited for this terrain. Blizzard seems completely unfazed by the worsening weather and dramatic screes we’ve had to traverse, and Naris and Wraith are overjoyed. The barghest and the cat-sìth are happily snapping at flakes and pouncing into snowdrifts, much to the consternation of Bree and Lore, who’ve been doing their best to remain astride them.
“Draard,” I murmur. “He was the one in the Summer Palace, and the one who whipped you.”
Caed looks away sharply, but Prae misses his clear desire to avoid the situation.
“He’s always had it out for Caed, ever since he killed Bres.”
“Bres?” Jaro asks.
“My brother,” Caed mutters. “Challenged me to a fight to the death a little over a year after I came home with the Nicnevin’s mark on my skin.”
“Challenged a child?” Jaro’s voice hitches with shock.
“It happens more often than you would think,” Caed says. “I could hold a sword. I was fair game. Anyway, Draard was tipped to become Bres’s second in command when he took the throne, and he would’ve taken it. He was the perfect Fomorian.”
The bitterness in his voice is so stringent it silences the others. Even Drystan, behind me, seems quiet. I think this is the first time that they’ve considered what a Fomorian upbringing might be like. Perhaps, my dullahan is even considering that they might have some things in common.
I hope so. I woke up this morning to overhear Jaro and Bree quietly talking about the situation. Sixty days. That’s all that’s left until the eve of Beltaine. Maybe this is a sign that Drystan’s stubborn mind is finally changing…
“Too bad you couldn’t die,” he mutters under his breath.
Or perhaps not.
