Page 145 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
The path up to the palace is straight, up hundreds of ice-carved stairs, but none of us break a sweat. After wading through waist-high snow for weeks, this is nothing. In fact, the ease of thestairs is a relief, and my wolf shakes out the snow from his fur as we scale them.
Someone has obviously defied Cedwyn’s edict at the palace doors, because they open before Rose can call Maeve forth for a repeat performance. Hawkith stands there—the manipulative bitch no doubt frothing at the mouth to be seen as the Nicnevin’s ally—bowing low before moving aside.
“Shall I escort you to the throne room, Your Majesty?” she asks.
“I know the way.” Rose urges Wraith forward and up more stairs.
“Your Majesty.” A high fae male with his hair hung with pearl beads speed-walks to catch up with her, his head barely level with her knee while she’s atop Wraith like this. “The King is busy dealing with an exile. If you’ll just wait?—”
“I am done waiting.” Rose waves him away, regarding the soldiers standing awkwardly by the doors with an imperious wave of her hand. “Are you going to open those, or do I have to do everything myself?”
Forty-Three
Rhoswyn
The ice palace is a complete departure from the residences of the other minor royals. It’s nearly silent, eerily perfect, with a hushed atmosphere that reminds me a little too much of Reverend Michael’s imposing church.
There’s a strange kind of fog that lingers across the floor, sweeping around Wraith’s legs as he walks, cushioning the sound of his claws on the floor. Even the doors are silent as the males guarding them shove them open, revealing an audience hall with immense vaulted ceilings crisscrossed with ice beams. They’re translucent enough that I can make out the crystal tree above, lighting the space, and my eyes catch on a handful of odd, dark splotches visible through the ice.
A slight shuffle to my left draws my attention back to the crowd of fae wearing white furs draped over gowns and robes of pale blue and dove grey.
They scatter as they realise who I am, shifting to make a path towards the throne and the black-haired man sitting atop it. He’s frozen with his mouth open, spine stiffening as he forgets aboutthe group of prisoners chained at his feet and focuses instead on me.
Don’t look down,I coach myself, holding onto Danu a little tighter as my glamoured wings flutter nervously along my spine. I’m a queen. He rules by my leave. I’m in charge here.
Cedwyn’s eyes find mine, then drop to the barghest I’m riding. I follow his path as he notes Jaro’s wolf, lingers on Bree and Lore, then frowns at Drystan and Hawkith on my other side, before his jaw snaps closed at the sight of Caed on my far left.
“Hey, redcap,” the Fomorian mutters, just loud enough for our group to hear. “Shame there aren’t any violet roses around, huh?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Lore miss a step, then continue walking as if nothing’s happened. I’m unable to repress my incredulous smile as I realise Caed did this on purpose—making Lore walk through a crowd of fae with his dick vibrating.
“Joke’s on you, blue. This isn’t the largest crowd that’s ever seen me come in my pants.”
It isn’t?
“Enough, you two,” Drystan hisses, too tense to appreciate the humour.
His tone is sobering, and I sigh as Lore reluctantly turns off the enchantment and I have to draw my focus back to the enormous room.
They’re all staring at me.
“This hearing is over,” I announce, with a boldness I don’t feel. “Everyone, out.”
The fae courtiers don’t argue. They file from the room in graceful lines, shooting me indecipherable looks as they go. Even a few of Cedwyn’s guards file out, leaving the king sitting on his throne of delicate filigree ice with Ashton right beside him. As if taking that as her cue, Hawkith moves to stand on his other side.
No one seems to notice the prisoners forgotten on the floor. Or at least, they’re too busy following my orders to deal with them, so the five huge males remain in place as Wraith stalks forward.
“Who’s that?” one of the captives mutters, and I jolt as I realise they’re speaking the mortal tongue.
They’re not mortal. Not even close. But they’re not fae either—not all of them, at least. Two are twins—though one of them is blind, if his white eyes are anything to go by. One is easily as huge as Jaro, with dark skin, red eyes, and fangs that jut down to his chin. The fourth is blond and tattooed, wearing little more than a white kilt despite the cold.
Who are they?
Their final member, a black-haired fae—who looks a little too much like Cedwyn and Drystan for the resemblance to be coincidence—shoves his shoulder into his companion. “Hush, you idiot. That’s the Nicnevin.”
“The high queen?” the blonde in the kilt asks.
“Aye. Lower your eyes, before her Guard take them.”
