Page 30 of Across an Endless Sea

My father tends to kill anyone he so much as suspects of treason, along with those he perceives as being too powerful. Even his own family isn’t safe. Both Prae’s mother—his sister—and their mother before her were executed on his orders.

My oath might make me immune to true death, but a beheading will still hurt.

“I understand, my king.”

“Good.” He pauses, glancing up at the glowing mushrooms that light the way.

I forgot how gloomy it was beneath the mountain. During my years in Faerie, I’ve grown too used to the brightness of day and marking the time by the position of the sun.

I didn’t miss this. I may have been born here, beneath the mountain, but I hate everything about Fellgotha. Hopefully, Elatha won’t wait too long before he sends me back out to conquer more of Faerie.

The silence between us is heavy, and without meaning to, a kernel of panic starts to rise. He hasn’t said anything. Not even a whisper of praise for capturing Rose. Should I have waited to return until I crushed the entire continent?

“Shall I make plans to return?” I ask. “Now that we have their queen, their morale should be at an all-time low. We can press our advantage and take Elfhame City.”

Prae and I left our cousins in charge of taking the outer wall, but I’ll still reap the glory of being the first conquering Fomorian to step inside the palace.

“No.” His tone is final. “I have other ideas to set in motion. Until I am ready, you’ll remain here. There are several challengers who have been eagerly awaiting your return. I do hope your powers won’t continue malfunctioning when faced with an actual opponent.”

Great. Lashes and then endless rounds in the pit with whichever opportunistic asshole thinks he can steal my place.

Have I not proved myself enough?

Bitter anger settles in my gut as I realise all the Ancestors-damned glory I won for him across the sea and capturing the Nicnevin wasn’t sufficient to earn even one approving word. Bres has been dead more than a decade, and yet I’ve still not managed to wrest our father’s favour from his ghost.

“I look forward to it,” I hiss.

The barge groans as it rocks against the edge of the underground basin, but the sound is drowned out by the roar of the falls as water spills over the edge and into the immense cavern beyond.

Fellgotha is a citadel within a hollow mountain, shaped by hundreds of generations of our Ancestors who chiselled the city out of the rock. Its splendour is a living monument to their glory and suffering.

Slaves leap off the barge and begin the work of tethering the boat to the stone dock, while still more of them rush to line up the plank so that the king can disembark.

The warriors file off of the boat first, securing the area, forming a guard of honour for the king. Elatha takes his time leaving, and I follow at a respectful distance behind.

We’re barely halfway to the great lift when a pained gasp and a frantic pulse of the Call beneath my skin snaps my entire body around.

Rose has collapsed at the bottom of the gangplank. Her skin pales beneath my gaze, and her hands flutter weakly over her chest, like it’s paining her. Prae frowns down at her, only to take a step back as the earth below us seems to rumble.

“Cave in!” someone yells.

Every Fomorian—and most of the seasoned fae slaves—ducks, sheltering their heads. But they’re wrong.

This isn’t a cave in.

“What is shedoing?” Elatha snaps.

“I have no idea,” I whisper, watching with awe as the entire cave starts to change.

The stone around Rose seems to darken, then take on a slight glitter. The water beneath us goes from a murky grey-brown to perfectly clear. Suddenly I can see the bottom of the pool before the cascade, and it glimmers with colours I didn’t even know existed. Precious stones of all shades shine in a rainbow along the waterbed.

That change is drastic, but no more so than the sudden blinding light that fills the space. The bitterblues on the roof of the cave are glowing a hundred times brighter than they were before. Now they pulse softly, like true stars that banish the shadows.

Even more amazing, they start to grow larger and stronger than ever before. So do the trees along the water’s edge. Those firs were planted centuries before my birth in an attempt to bring a little life across the sea and grant our people the boon of wood to craft with, but like all things, they suffered in the dead soil of the mountain. Now, they’re transformed into bushy, healthy green giants, teeming with emerald needles that guard the lip of the falls.

They aren’t the only plants to have been rejuvenated, either. Beneath the water, vibrant streams of water-weeds are springing up from the coloured stones, waving in the current.

“Someone explain this black sorcery,” the king demands. “And get the slaves up. Have them all whipped.”

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