Page 50 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
“Lorcan.”
My teeth sink hard into my lower lip as the dullahan’s cautioning tone bursts my bubble. I can’t resist leaning forward to lick Rose’s neck, leaving the blood from my wound behind as another mark of claiming.
“What’s that?” Jaro asks, drawing all of our attention away from Rose.
“That’s a gap.” I answer.
Wait.
“Why is there a gap?” There wasn’t one before. How did this happen?
The Forest of Whispers spreads from the Apporas to the Endless Sea. It’s an unbroken line of ancient trees. There are nogaps.
“Clearing the land.” Caed shoves past us without looking at Rose. “The fae like to ambush my father’s troops. His solution was to chop the forest down, tree by tree, and ship the wood back to Fellgotha, since we had no trees of our own.”
Rose’s joy and awe vanishes, her spine stiffening. “How could anyone destroy?—”
“Easily.” Caed keeps moving, catching up to our guides. “They’re in the way of what he wants. Do you know how much food this court has? Not to mention all the gold…”
“Gold?” Rose asks.
“Who do you think feeds the Winter Court?” Drystan growls, like he can’t bear to admit his snowy court is incapable of feeding itself properly. “Winter and Autumn are bound together by more than just unseelie blood.”
Rose turns quiet, her eyes unfocused as she turns to follow the soldiers further through the treetops. Her musing can’t last long, however, because halfway across the next bridge, the cheery sounds of the dying drift through the trees. All of us tense, but the soldiers seem unconcerned.
I peer eagerly over the edge, looking for a gap in the trees through which I might see the battle obviously going on below us. Ultimately, my efforts are wasted, because as we round the next trunk, we’re treated to a glorious view of a village on fire.
Sixteen
Rhoswyn
From our vantage point, I can see the village carved into the lower trunks of the trees ahead. It’s beautiful—or it was. I can imagine that the burning shells of buildings before were once full of rustic charm. Now they’re swarmed by Fomorians and fae locked in battle, the fires lighting up the carnage in vivid orange hues.
“You’ve brought us to a battlefield,” Jaro growls, his wolf glowing from his eyes.
“We brought you to the queen,” the soldier replies evenly. “Besides, there’s no risk to the Nicnevin up here. The Fomorians have yet to master flying.”
“It’s on my list,” Prae mutters, but is ignored.
“Where is she?” I ask.
Bree’s hand whips out and snatches a crossbow bolt from the air just inches from the side of my face.
“Sure, no risk,” my púca grumbles, putting himself slightly in front of me as Lore blinks away—presumably to take the head of my attacker.
I find my answer almost as soon as I ask the question. Screams echo from our left, and my head turns, seeking out the threat only to watch as the Fomorians currently running towards that part of the fray begin to slow down, then start to turn and run back in the opposite direction.
They don’t make it far.
What I’m seeing doesn’t make sense. The Fomorians are… ageing? Thinning? Weakening? Some combination of all three? Their blue skin turns grey before my eyes, their frames slouching and their muscles evaporating until there’s nothing but hunched-over living skeletons for yards on either side ofher.
Cressida wears leather armour like she was born into it. Though her features are hidden, the golden spikes sticking out of her helm in a halo that loosely resembles a crown of thorns mark her unmistakably as royal.
“Queen Cressida of the Autumn Court,” the soldier announces, unnecessarily. “And her knight consorts.”
A sharp pain in my lip makes me realise I’ve been worrying it between my teeth, and I let out a sharp breath to collect myself.
The autumn queen is terrifying, true, her magic formidable, yes. But Aiyana or Eero could claim the same, and neither of them ever inspired this strange sense of awe. It doesn’t take a genius to realise it’s because this queen is doing the one thing neither of them would ever dream of: she’s fighting alongside her people.
