Page 92 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
Pacing back to Jaro, I take a spot just behind him, unwilling to trust myself as the seamstress fits Rose with a thick pair of leggings.
“She’s okay,” I whisper to myself, leaning against the bookcase, my tongue darting out, searching for the slightest hint of sloe gin in the air.
Lore is out there alone. I freeze, wondering if I’ve made a mistake, before casting the thought aside. For all his febrile energy, the redcap is thousands of years old. More than capable of shrugging off the effects of my father’s charm.
“You gonna tell me why you burst in here like your ass was on fire?” Jaro asks, slowly, cautiously, like I’m a rabbit he’s trying not to spook.
“My father is involved,” I admit, cautiously. “I had to make sure…”
The wolf shifter straightens. “You said he was banished from Siabetha?”
“By Máel, yes. But Eero isn’t one to let a bard leave his service so easily.” And Torrance was far too blasé about the exile, like he knew it wouldn’t matter. “He’s Lyarthorn, after all. The name alone opens doors.”
Or it did once. Goddess only knows what he did to our reputation while I was imprisoned.
“Everything okay?” Rose asks, peeking out from behind the screen.
“Bree’s father is involved,” Jaro says, without missing a beat. “Be careful.”
Rose’s eyes flash with something that looks awfully like fury, and I tense, only to realise it’s not directed at me.
“He charmed a maid,” I explain. “That was how they delivered the snakes.”
I refrain from mentioning Bram’s head, because although Rose looks fine, the Call tells me she’s not. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a glamour over her face, hiding the puffiness from her tears.
She should never have had to see that. I can’t help but worry that this won’t be the last body part they’ll send either. The Summer Court are experts at psychological warfare, and they’ve already proven they’re willing to use dishonourable unseelie tactics. They’ll use everything at their disposal to weaken Rose.
“We have to assume that if Eero knows we’re here, the Fomorians do too,” Jaro says. “They could come down harder on the Autumn Court…”
Rose disappears back behind the screen, and I silently urge her to hurry.
Torrance is here. Inside the palace. Every passer-by whose shadow crosses the floor through the window is a potential threat. My skin is crawling, made worse by the knowledge that the stakes are infinitely higher than they were before. Now that the Fomorians are involved…
“We need to leave,” I whisper to Jaro. “As soon as we can. Before?—”
“Rose was right,” he agrees. “Kitarni already told us we should follow the Nicnevin’s instincts. From now on, whatever she says, I’m backing it. Drystan will try to walk all over her otherwise, and Lore’s no help.”
“Agreed,” I murmur. “But her training…”
She’s made huge progress since we arrived. In less than a week, she’s mastered commanding a ballroom full of ghosts to dance and managed to give them all corporeal form. If she can do the same thing with warriors, they’d be an invincible army of the dead.
But if she loses focus, even for a second, the situation will get out of control fast.
“We can order Cressida to write her instructions, like Florian did. The rest…” Jaro trails off.
She’ll have to figure it out on her own. It’s not like that’s unusual for most Fae, anyway. The diverse and unpredictable nature of fae magic means it’s rare for anyone to have a tutor. We just have to hope that the five of us can keep Rose safe while she learns.
Twenty-Eight
Rhoswyn
I’ve been numb since we left Illidwen yesterday, taking the north road towards the Silfeyn. My trip to the temple yielded no answers, though the fire at the centre of the shrine turned violet after I blessed it—confirming my theory that the Goddess’s lack of blessings in the Summer Court were a result of her anger at Eero.
Now, resting against Lore’s chest, I stare blankly at the falling leaves around us. It’s raining. The cold droplets are fat, heavy, and deafening as they pummel the forest; but his hat has become so wide-brimmed that none of them can touch me.
Naris even tiptoes around puddles, hissing at Wraith whenever the barghest splashes through them without care.
The grim weather matches the mood of our group perfectly. Drystan is still angry with me, Bree is tenser than the strings on his harp, and Caed is shooting Gryffin scathing looks.
