Page 161 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
The look in Bree’s eyes is deadly as he says, “She’s not yours to touch.”
Ashton looks less than bothered. “Bards.” He spreads his hands wide as if in explanation. “Always so dramatic.”
“Mates,” Bree corrects, tucking me under his arm as he dismisses the dagger.
Ashton blows me an insincere kiss.
“He courts death, and he knows it,” Mab murmurs.
“Wouldn’t you, in his shoes?” Titania whispers.
That haunting comment echoes in my mind as Ashton leads us purposefully through the halls of the citadel, closer to the soft, glowing light of the crystal tree. As we ascend a third set of stairs, I shoot Maeve a questioning look.
“Calimnel’s dungeons are high in the trunk of the crystal tree. You’ll see why when we get there.” Her smile is vicious. “And if you can manage to implement something similar in Elfhame, I think it would really add some?—”
“She doesn’t needthatin her home,” Titania objects. “Elfhame Palace is a place for the Nicnevin to rest, not endure the screams of her enemies.”
Well, that’s ominous.
Taking a deep breath, I try not to grimace as Ashton leads us out onto the battlements that surround the trunk of the tree.
“Quite something, isn’t it?” he says. “This rooftop was once a garden, before the tree took over. My father planted the seed on the day of his wedding. It was enchanted specially to grow at this altitude.”
All that remains of the roof now is the wide walkway around the base and a large bartizan overlooking the main gate far below.
“Impressive,” I admit.
Ashton’s wings flick out, glamour dropping as he takes to the air, offering me a hand. He has dragonfly wings, much like Gryffin and me, but unlike ours, his are… tatty. Almost like someone has taken a blade to the edges and made them uneven. I’m not sure if that’s how they are naturally, so I don’t comment as I ignore his outstretched hand and let my own glamour drop. Bree waits until I’m fluttering above him before taking off himself, the powerful rush of air his wings produce forcing mine to strain harder to compensate.
“This way,” Ashton calls, unperturbed by my display of independence.
“High Priestess?” Bree says, offering her a hand.
Kitarni shakes her head. “I… I belong on the ground. My lady, I believe you’ll be better served without me. You have my full support, whatever you decide to do with him.”
My guides take to the air around us, and I find myself studying their technique as we leave the dryad behind. Gryffin taught me a lot, and I probably wouldn’t be in the air without him, but I’m still a long way from mastering flight. It can’t hurt to study other methods to try to improve.
Ashton flies vertically in a lazy spiral that circles the translucent, veined trunk of the crystal tree. The glowing makes it hard to stare at when I’m this close, and the chill at this height seeps into my marrow until I find myself wishing Drystan were with me, even though he can’t fly. Every icy breath burns my lungs.
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever feel warm again when he finally stops at a knot in the crystal bark.
It’s a door, I realise. A gaping wound in the tree, carved out with care and levelled at the base to form a room.
Blinking away the sunspots in my vision, I start to notice more of them amongst the cracks in the bark. Smaller than thisone, and open to the air. Do fae… live up here? Surely not. We’re so high up that if someone were to fall, they’d be dead for certain.
Then Ashton leads us into the prison, and my naivety dies a swift death.
It’s a cell block. The main room we’re in is the guards’ chamber, and around it are a dozen or so transparent doors. The prisoners are huddled against them, like they’re trying to get into the guard’s room, but a second glance reveals that’s not the case at all.
The prisoners are clinging to the thresholds to stay inside the tree, rather than plummeting to their deaths below. Those cracks in the bark are places where the cells are open to the sky, and the prison floors slope at a cruel angle. If the occupants were to lie down, or leave their doorways, they’d almost certainly slip and fall. The few with wings have them bound to their backs, and their wrists are ringed with cuffs to prevent them from using their magic.
Suddenly, the dark patches I noticed on the throne room ceiling make a horrific kind of sense.
The prisoners have two choices: cling on and face the judgement of the king, or die. Yet still, some of them stand at my entrance, bowing shallowly.
Whatever crimes they may or may not have committed, I’m still their Nicnevin.
My heart clenches painfully, but Bree is behind me, steadying me. His quiet but strong presence grants me the courage to step forward. We’re here for his father, no one else. As Nicnevin, my priority is the fae who are currently refugees because their home—my city—is currently under siege. Interfering with Cedwyn’s prisoners, when I have no real justification beyond my own very un-fae-like compassion, is likely to cause a diplomatic incident that could jeopardise the fate of the war.
