Page 154 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
“Why are you still doing this?” Cedwyn asks, as the spirit cackles like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Ashton Froshtyn, I order you to get rid of this infernal spirit.”
The silhouette that remained by the door moves into the room, sword drawn. “How exactly am I supposed to do that, brother? You may have my name, but unless you want to murder me—and do feel free to, if you’re so inclined—I can’t kill the dead.”
Cedwyn slumps beside the throne, only to stumble and fall as the spirit jumps out at him.
“Boo!”
The deep, echoing syllable reverberates off the walls of the throne room, making the crystals of the chandeliers tinkle and jitter. I don’t think either of the fae can see the spirit, but I’m almost certain they heard that because Ashton’s head whips around and Cedwyn pales.
Squinting, I try my best to see who it is, but I can’t make out any details. He zooms forward, intentionally passing through the king in a move I know will leave him chilled without a discernible cause.
“Perhaps you could ask the Nicnevin for her assistance,” Ashton suggests, sheathing his sword.
Cedwyn bolts to his feet, cold fury written in every line of him. He was the picture of arctic calm when facing down a Nicnevin possessed by Danu, riding a barghest, but that composure is long gone now.
“Which little ghosty is tormenting old Ced?” Lore whispers in my ear, voice full of glee.
“I can’t make him out. We’re too far away.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. We’re crouched behind a vase of fir boughs and holly sprigs before I can realise my mistake.
On the positive side, I’m now close enough to read every expression that passes over the king’s face.
Unfortunately, I barely dare to breathe for fear of discovery. My eyes bulge as I look back at Lore, who shrugs and mouths, “Who is it?”
Realising that the only way I’m getting back to the relative safety of the rafters is if I identify the spirit, I search the room for him again. Cedwyn has forced Ashton to the ground and appears to be melting the floor around him. The prince isn’t struggling; if anything, he’s started laughing, even though his face is barely above the water.
Then he’s choking on that laughter as the floor covers him completely before turning to ice once more. Cedwyn leaves him there for an agonisingly long minute, letting him flail and convulse beneath the surface, before bringing him back up.
“Never, ever suggest such a thing again.” Cedwyn scowls as Ashton chokes and splutters at his feet. “I would rather raze the citadel to the ground than owe the Nicnevin a debt.”
This close, I can see things I missed in the rafters. The dark inky circles beneath his eyes, the exhaustion written into his posture and the… fear. Terror and rage waft from him so thickly I can almost taste them on my tongue.
The ghost reappears, brushing through Cedwyn until the king’s hands spasm, and the ice solidifies, leaving Ashton’s face stuck just above the surface.
This is wrong. They’re brothers, for Goddess’s sake.
The spirit reappears behind Cedwyn, and I bite my lip to keep from gasping as recognition slams into me. Blond hair, fiery eyes, and a strip of black around his throat.
It’s the one Drystan refused to take to the Otherworld. What was his name? Archie? Frowning, I try to remember what he’d said at the time. Something about him having things to do before he crossed over?
It looks like those things involve torturing Cedwyn.
“By all means,” Ashton chokes out, struggling to speak. “Continue suffering, my king.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re just waiting for this fucking spirit to drive me to my grave.” Cedwyn leaps out of his skin as Archie brushes a hand along his shoulders.
Meanwhile, my mind is racing. How long has he been tormenting Cedwyn? And why would Drystan allow it? No, not just allow it, condone it. Is this… revenge on his father?
Ashton’s face is turning blue, his fogging breaths ridiculously shallow. He can’t breathe with his chest encased in ice.
Cedwyn turns on his heel, pacing away, only to curse when the chandelier falls from the beam above. With a deafening smash, it shatters on the ice below, inches from where he’s standing. He doesn’t flinch, but his shoulders creep higher as Ashton cackles.
“Your Highness?” The door creeps open, a concerned guard sticking their head through.
Cedwyn whirls, an icicle shooting from his palm to thud into the wall beside the intruder. “Leave us!”
His voice has gone from manic to deadly calm, and I realise even in the depths of this fear, he won’t show that weakness to the very fae who are supposed to protect him.
