Page 66 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
“I couldn’t see my own aura for ages,” I admit. “My Guard thought it was some kind of self-protection because it was so bright. Perhaps it’s the same thing?”
“The Nicnevin rides with the Wild Hunt,” Drystan says quietly, as though he hates even saying the name of the host aloud. “Spirits—especially weaker ones—tend to avoid the Host where possible.”
And he’s their Lord. The memory of him wielding that bone whip against the spirits on Samhain isn’t one I’ll forget any time soon, and thinking about it makes me understand why spirits would give him space.
Wait. Is he sayinghe’sthe reason that I can’t see other spirits? Do I have Drystan to thank for my sanity?
Or… is he calling me a part of his Host? My heart does an embarrassing little flutter.
Grunting noncommittally, as if unimpressed with his reasoning, Cressida heads around the palace tree until she reaches a solemn stone door set into the massive, gnarled roots. It retracts at her touch, swinging up to display yet another staircase that leads down into the darkness.
She doesn’t light a torch, but she doesn’t need to. As soon as her feet touch the first step, bright blue flames race down a recess cut along the base of the stairs, illuminating a long trek before us, and casting the claw-like shadows of the roots above into sharp relief.
“Where are we going?” I whisper, but the earthen walls seem to swallow the question.
I doubt Cressida even hears it.
Not that it matters much. A minute or two later, the tunnel opens out into a place that gives me shivers. A crypt.
Thanks to Lore, I’m familiar with the pillar-shaped tombstones cluttering the space, but unlike the graveyard where we chased wisps together, this one seems menacing and cold. It could have something to do with the skulls affixed atop each marker. Some are ancient, others newer, but all of them are blackened and withered, as if carved from old leather.
“One of my nieces and two of my nephews have died since last Samhain,” Cressida announces, stopping by the newest three pillars, which are as-yet untouched by moss. “Spirits tend to remain close to either their family or their own graves. A necromancer should be able to see them without issue.”
I grind my teeth. “Telling me what I should be able to do is unhelpful. Clearly, it’s not something that comes naturally to me. Can’t you give me a little more instruction?”
Cressida shrugs. “I do not have the sight, Nicnevin. You do. You learned to read auras, did you not? It should be no different.”
I can’t help the frustrated sigh that escapes. Why didn’t she just say that to begin with?
Staring at the graves like I’m searching for an aura feels stupid, but I’m relieved when I start to see fuzzy outlines that coalesce into the blurry shape of a fae.
Perhaps, for once, this will go my way.
Except instead of a stranger, the translucent blur in my vision slowly forms into the shape of someone far too recognisable.
“Bram?” My voice breaks and I step back, colliding with Drystan.
“Perfect.” Cressida claps her hands together. “One spirit is much the same as one another.”
She says something else, but I’m too busy staring at the outline of my brother. He’s naked, and that stupidly sticks with me. Because he shifted to escape his captors, then shifted back to take that blow from Eero, he died without clothes. Not only is he dead because of me, his sacrifice means he’ll be stuck as a naked ghost forever.
My breath cuts off with a half sob, and Bram offers me a small smile before shifting back to his fox form and… running away.
My heart crumples all over again.
“Wait!” I actually reach for him, but Cressida grabs my outstretched arm and flings it back at me with a frown.
“Already focusing more on the dead than the living.” She tuts under her breath.
“She lost him recently,” Drystan argues on my behalf, his hands cupping my shoulders gently. “Have a little pity.”
Cressida rolls her eyes. “The Fomorians won’t wait for her to get over her grief, and neither can my court. Can you see my sister’s children or not?” The last is a snapped demand, and I nod woodenly.
There are three other fae wandering around the crypt, regarding her with confusion, sadness, and, in one case, anger. They’re all wearing armour, and the angry one—a male with hair just like hers—is still clutching his sword.
“You have two choices, as a necromancer,” Cressida begins. “Focus on your sight and accept the danger that brings in exchange for the power your magic grants you. Or you can choose to ignore it and muzzle yourself to keep your sanity.” A pause. “If you pick the latter, I will?—”
Her rant cuts off, body jerking.
