Page 143 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

His stag mask stays in place, floating above his shoulders as he removes his head and holds it up with his fingers fisted in his own braided hair. He might not be wearing the mask over his physical face, but a thick strip of gold-flecked black war paint covers every inch of skin from his forehead to his cheekbones, warping his features. I can see his eyes still blinking inside his decapitated skull. The expression of distaste on his face remains until he angles himself so he’s facing away from me.

Am I really so horrid to look at?

I barely have time to wallow over his clear loathing because my curiosity forces me to look upwards at the mask now floating across the visage of shadows that has replaced his head.

I can make out the twin glowing amber flames lit behind the eye sockets of the stag’s skull, but nothing else. Like before, he has no other features to distinguish the dark mass where his head should be.

“What are you?” I whisper, unable to hold it back.

I swear I can feel his sadness as his glowing eyes bore into me.

“The last of my kind,” he finally replies.

The words don’t come from the shadows—which makes sense, because although he has eyes, he doesn’t seem to have a mouth. Instead, his decapitated head answers me. Drystan doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he hefts his own head into the air and turns it to face the rest of the Hunt.

“We ride!” he yells.

His announcement is greeted by cheers from the others, who pump their own fists into the air in answer. Barghests howl and even the horses join in, stamping their hoofs on the cold stone in tandem with the unceasing drumbeat, until the combined cacophony is deafening. Drystan doesn’t seem to mind. He’s too busy carefully lowering his head into an open weave bag that’s secured to the saddle by his leg. The moment it’s safely in place, he takes up Blizzard’s reins.

That must be some kind of signal, because above us, dozens of enormous black birds with teeth burst from their roosts. They shriek and caw as they dive through the open wall and into the snowy night beyond.

Whatever they are, they’re exactly the same as Bree’s tattoo.

Are they what Annis called valravne?

The barghests follow, leading the way into the pitch dark sky. Only they don’t tumble over the steep drop and plummet to their deaths. No. They continue running into the air as if there’s still a floor below their paws.

When Drystan urges Blizzard forward, I have a horrible feeling I know what’s going to happen.

I’m proved right when he gallops at full speed over the edge, and my stomach drops out from under me. For a second, despite seeing the barghests run into the sky, I’m convinced we’re going to fall. There’s no way we won’t tumble down the steep, rocky cliff below.

As if to confirm my fear, Blizzard seems to sink lower for a second before climbing into the freezing air after the giant hounds. Snow pelts my face and settles in my hair in thick flakes. It even lands on Wraith’s little black nose, which has poked out to investigate what’s going on.

Once I get over the fact that we’re not falling, a little of the tension leaves my limbs.

This… is actually pretty amazing.

Below us, the razor sharp snowy mountains of the Winter Court pierce the night. The snow-painted fir trees on their slopes seem to shudder as we thunder above them through the night. We’re descending down the mountain in a slow spiral, which gives me plenty of time to admire the breathtaking view.

It would be serene, if not for the noise of the hunt. The baying howls of the barghests and the caws of the valravne echo across the sky in their own unique symphony.

“This is…”

I look back at Drystan, then down at his head, unsure which of his heads I should be addressing. In the end, my eyes dart between his head and his mask so quickly he takes pity on me.

“I can sense you just fine. Just pick a head and talk to it.”

As it’s the head in the bag still speaking, I decide to focus on that one. The open weave allows me to see enough of his features that I can still read his expressions, which is more than the mask allows.

“I just wanted to say this is beautiful, and I understand why you wouldn’t tell me now.”

“You do?” His brow rises in question.

“Because of the carvings.”

“I’m surprised you managed to find time to study them in between saving barghest pups,” he retorts.

“The Wild Hunt was almost wiped out,” I continue, ignoring him. “Because one of the previous lords did something.” I wasn’t able to tell what, exactly, from the carved pictures.

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