Chapter 20

Twenty

Rhoswyn

S tifling a yawn behind my hand, I try not to let my tiredness show as I hurry towards the throne room. Behind me, Drystan lets out a low chuckle, like he wasn’t one of the three directly responsible for keeping me up well into the night and then waking me at the crack of dawn.

I haven’t even had a chance to properly bathe, let alone do my wing exercises, but here I am, wearing one of my guys’ shirts as a tunic as I stride towards the throne room with Wraith and Drystan for company. Given that the last time a minor royal summoned me didn’t go well, I almost feel under prepared.

The immense wooden doors are opened by trolls, revealing a room that’s about as opposite from the glittering halls of Siabetha as can be.

It’s dark. The tall windows are thin and barely allow any of the pale dawn into the room, and the only decorations are the long banners that hang from the ceiling to brush the floor, all in various shades of red, orange, and black.

And in the middle, on a throne carved from an enormous, withered, dead tree, Cressida sits, listening to the report of a redcap wearing a kettle hat.

“And the movements to the west are getting bolder. They’ve tried twice to take the chain towers protecting the Eyslin and Apporas estuaries.”

Cressida notices me and holds a hand up for silence. “Dismissed. We’ll discuss this later.”

The redcap bows, shooting a distrustful look my way before he leaves the way I entered.

“Nicnevin.” Cressida stands and descends from her throne towards me.

Her face is pinched with an expression that doesn’t bode well for the rest of our time together. Today the long folds of her knee-length robes and her tall boots disguise the brace she wears entirely, and I wonder for a second if her legs are something she hides from her court.

If they are, why show me?

“Come. The throne room is not a hotbed of spirits.”

She summoned me before dawn to train?

She sweeps past me without another word, leading the way out of a side door and down a smaller passageway.

“How much practice have you done by yourself?” she asks, as I hurry to keep up.

“A little,” I admit. “A lot of the time… it’s Danu using me in a rage. But I can bring my grandmothers into the physical realm, and I use Titania’s healing gift often enough.”

Cressida shoots me a confused look over her shoulder. “And how are you coping with the other spirits?”

My stomach drops. “What other spirits?”

Her eyebrows climb higher on her forehead. “Necromancers normally see more than just three spirits.”

“I mean, I summoned a couple on the wall of Elfhame,” I say. “By reading their names. And I saw the ones we took to the Otherworld at Samhain…”

She waves my words away. “But what about other spirits? Come now, you’ve visited three major cities on your travels and you’re telling me you haven’t seen any other ghosts?”

What does she want me to say? “I’ve not seen any other spirits. I only just learned to read auras recently.”

I can’t see her face, but I can feel her frown as she shoves open another door and leads us out onto a staircase that wraps around the trunk of the palace tree.

“Yet you’ve used your grandmothers’ gifts?”

“Yes,” I admit. “But they’re not like other spirits. Danu appointed them my Guides. They’ve been with me since I was a baby.”

“Raised by the dead but unable to see the rest of them?” Cressida mutters disbelievingly as we reach the bottom of the stairs, then she leads me out onto the leaf-strewn carpet of the forest. “And the priestesses would have us believe Danu doesn’t play favourites with her children.” She scoffs.

“I couldn’t see my own aura for ages,” I admit. “My Guard thought it was some kind of self-protection because it was so bright. Perhaps it’s the same thing?”

“The Nicnevin rides with the Wild Hunt,” Drystan says quietly, as though he hates even saying the name of the host aloud. “Spirits—especially weaker ones—tend to avoid the Host where possible.”

And he’s their Lord. The memory of him wielding that bone whip against the spirits on Samhain isn’t one I’ll forget any time soon, and thinking about it makes me understand why spirits would give him space.

Wait. Is he saying he’s the reason that I can’t see other spirits? Do I have Drystan to thank for my sanity?

Or… is he calling me a part of his Host? My heart does an embarrassing little flutter.

Grunting noncommittally, as if unimpressed with his reasoning, Cressida heads around the palace tree until she reaches a solemn stone door set into the massive, gnarled roots. It retracts at her touch, swinging up to display yet another staircase that leads down into the darkness.

She doesn’t light a torch, but she doesn’t need to. As soon as her feet touch the first step, bright blue flames race down a recess cut along the base of the stairs, illuminating a long trek before us, and casting the claw-like shadows of the roots above into sharp relief.

“Where are we going?” I whisper, but the earthen walls seem to swallow the question.

I doubt Cressida even hears it.

Not that it matters much. A minute or two later, the tunnel opens out into a place that gives me shivers. A crypt.

Thanks to Lore, I’m familiar with the pillar-shaped tombstones cluttering the space, but unlike the graveyard where we chased wisps together, this one seems menacing and cold. It could have something to do with the skulls affixed atop each marker. Some are ancient, others newer, but all of them are blackened and withered, as if carved from old leather.

“One of my nieces and two of my nephews have died since last Samhain,” Cressida announces, stopping by the newest three pillars, which are as-yet untouched by moss. “Spirits tend to remain close to either their family or their own graves. A necromancer should be able to see them without issue.”

I grind my teeth. “Telling me what I should be able to do is unhelpful. Clearly, it’s not something that comes naturally to me. Can’t you give me a little more instruction?”

Cressida shrugs. “I do not have the sight, Nicnevin. You do. You learned to read auras, did you not? It should be no different.”

I can’t help the frustrated sigh that escapes. Why didn’t she just say that to begin with?

Staring at the graves like I’m searching for an aura feels stupid, but I’m relieved when I start to see fuzzy outlines that coalesce into the blurry shape of a fae.

Perhaps, for once, this will go my way.

Except instead of a stranger, the translucent blur in my vision slowly forms into the shape of someone far too recognisable.

“Bram?” My voice breaks and I step back, colliding with Drystan.

“Perfect.” Cressida claps her hands together. “One spirit is much the same as one another.”

She says something else, but I’m too busy staring at the outline of my brother. He’s naked, and that stupidly sticks with me. Because he shifted to escape his captors, then shifted back to take that blow from Eero, he died without clothes. Not only is he dead because of me, his sacrifice means he’ll be stuck as a naked ghost forever.

My breath cuts off with a half sob, and Bram offers me a small smile before shifting back to his fox form and… running away.

My heart crumples all over again.

“Wait!” I actually reach for him, but Cressida grabs my outstretched arm and flings it back at me with a frown.

“Already focusing more on the dead than the living.” She tuts under her breath.

“She lost him recently,” Drystan argues on my behalf, his hands cupping my shoulders gently. “Have a little pity.”

Cressida rolls her eyes. “The Fomorians won’t wait for her to get over her grief, and neither can my court. Can you see my sister’s children or not?” The last is a snapped demand, and I nod woodenly.

There are three other fae wandering around the crypt, regarding her with confusion, sadness, and, in one case, anger. They’re all wearing armour, and the angry one—a male with hair just like hers—is still clutching his sword.

“You have two choices, as a necromancer,” Cressida begins. “Focus on your sight and accept the danger that brings in exchange for the power your magic grants you. Or you can choose to ignore it and muzzle yourself to keep your sanity.” A pause. “If you pick the latter, I will?—”

Her rant cuts off, body jerking.

“You vowed never to threaten the Nicnevin, dumbass,” Maeve says, popping up beside me.

Cressida can’t see her, but even if she could, she’s too busy choking on her own tongue. It’s the first time I’ve seen the vow of allegiance in action, and I didn’t expect this. I shouldn’t really be as surprised as I am. In many ways, it’s no different from a fae bargain.

“Fucking. Vow,” she finally says, straightening and brushing away the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes with an impatient arm before beginning again. “If you choose to ignore the sight, and the hundreds of spirits surrounding you, my court will perish.”

“Surely not all necromancers go insane?” Annis the creepy kikimora is my only point of reference, but Drystan has the sight, and he’s not mad.

“No.” Cressida admits. “But the lure of the dead is strong. Where most people see an empty room, you will see a hundred souls. Where the living will shun you, the dead will do anything you ask. Perhaps, right now, they’re too scared of the Hunt to start petitioning you to restore them, but there are always those desperate enough to try it. Once you give in and grant one sad, lonely soul an audience, they’ll all want one.”

The queen turns away, running her finger over the line of text on an old stone that’s nearly completely covered in moss.

“After Samhain, when they’ve been ushered to the Otherworld, you will get a short reprieve,” she says. “But as the year goes on, more and more of them will seek you out. Your relationships with the living will suffer for it.”

“Surely I can just ask them to leave me alone?” I venture.

Cressida shoots me a look. “That might work with your grandmothers, but it will take more effort with determined spirits. Danu sent the three females she knew wouldn’t take advantage of you to act as your guides. There are thousands of others whose intentions aren’t so pure.”

My gut sinks as I eye the ghosts in the room with us. “Don’t trust the dead. Got it.”

“Even those you knew in life,” the autumn queen pushes. “Ask my nephew what he wants most now. I bet you it’s my head on a platter. Two months ago, he was so loyal to me that he went into a battle he knew we couldn’t win on my orders without complaining.”

“I don’t want her dead.” The ghost steps forward, glaring at me. “But she needs to pay. My warriors were slaughtered to recapture a fort she sacrificed not ten days later.”

“He’s not happy.” I tug my sleeve as I admit it. “But do you expect him to be?”

“No.” She defers to my point with a subtle nod of her head. “But that’s why I chose him for this. You will need to learn to order uncooperative spirits around. If he’s as uncooperative in death as he was in life, he’s the perfect candidate.”

“But… don’t I need his name to command him to do anything?”

Cressida shakes her head. “Names are the easiest way to call a specific spirit from the Otherworld, yes. His spirit is already here, and as such, he is subject to your power. Order him to do something.”

It won’t be that simple. She’s as good as told me so. So I reach for Danu before I do what she says.

“Walk over there.” The command is stronger than I thought it would be, but the spirit just quirks one eyebrow at me.

“Make me.”

I’m trying . I think back, but squeeze my eyes shut instead. “Okay. That was a failure.”

“Really?” Cressida raises both brows, every inch as sarcastic and unhelpful as her nephew.

I really hate the family resemblance. “A little more help wouldn’t go amiss.”

Behind me, Drystan settles against the doorway, and I shoot a glare back at him too. Surely, as Lord of the Wild Hunt, he’s seen Annis use her powers.

“You’re probably focusing too much on the spirit.” Cressida taps her fingers against her breastbone. “Your power comes from here. Surely your seelie gift has taught you as much.”

I bite my lip as I consider it. When I charm people, I draw my magic up and force it into my voice, affecting myself rather than the person I’m charming.

Okay. Focusing on the bond to Danu, I fix my eyes on the ghost and try again.

“Bow.”

The most incremental nod of his head is all I manage to pull from him. Cressida looks beyond me, and I realise she’s watching Drystan to figure out if I’m making any progress whatsoever.

“He nodded,” I say, grinding my teeth together. “That’s progress, right?”

The armoured male throws his head back and laughs. “Oh yes, defeat the Fomorians by getting the spirits of the dead to nod at them. Good luck with that.”

I am really, really starting to dislike him.

Cressida rolls her eyes. “We’re staying down here until his nose touches the fucking floor. Tomorrow, we’ll work on calling them back from the Otherworld and commanding a crowd.”

Do I even want to know where she’s going to find a crowd of spirits?

It takes hours, and it doesn’t stop when I manage to make him bow. Cressida makes me force his true name from him, and once I have that—which was no easy feat—she makes me do the same with her nieces, and then command them all to dance.

Through it all, my heart aches for the dead warriors. They didn’t ask to die and become the plaything of a powerful—but clueless—Nicnevin. And Cressida is just using them without a hint of remorse.

When I ask her about it, she gives me a quelling glare. “The dead are dead. You are unable to hurt them, and they should be grateful to have something to do. If you’re going to be a worthwhile Nicnevin, you need to stop being so concerned for the feelings of others and start thinking about how they can be useful. Now, make them fight one another.”

I’m not convinced, but I shut up and do as she says. Watching the dead fight is weird. At one point, Cressida’s nephew takes his sister’s head, sword cleaving through her neck with a cloudy stroke, only for it to reform a second later, making her chuckle.

They truly are invulnerable.

“Is that it?” I ask, hating the traitorous droplet of sweat I can feel trickling down my back.

This is only three spirits. How many will I need to command to retake the Autumn Court? Why is this so hard?

Cressida throws back her head and laughs. “Oh no. You wanted to learn to ‘defend yourself,’ didn’t you?” Goddess, she doesn’t need to sound so derisory about it. “My soldiers have left us a sparring room for the afternoon. It hasn’t escaped my notice that you haven’t flown once since arriving here either, despite how many stairs there are in this tree. I have someone arriving tomorrow who can take over tutoring you in that, because I can’t spend every waking moment tutoring your ass. I have a war to fight. You have a lot to learn, Nicnevin. We haven’t even started calling spirits back from the Otherworld.”

I fall back onto my ass with a groan.

“What is your other gift?” Cressida asks a little later as I trudge behind her back up the stairs. “Tell me you’ve at least got a handle on that one.”

“It’s none of your concern,” Drystan responds.

Cressida stops, and I almost crash into her. “I am sworn to her, stupidly loyal to the ghost of her dead grandmother, and have thousands more years of experience than you at dealing with the powerful gifts of Nicnevins. Not telling me, nor letting me help, might just be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

It’s the bluntest response, delivered with typical Cressida bitchiness, but it cements what I already know as I look her in the eyes and draw on Danu again. “Please take a step back.”

My words are syrupy sweet with charm.

Cressida’s eyebrows rise as she does exactly as I ask.

“Please don’t tell anyone else about this,” I add, before she can break eye contact.

“Charm.” She takes another step back, looking truly aghast for the first time. “You? Of all the Nicnevins. What makes you?—?”

“I don’t use it unless I have to. It’s more effective that way.” I sweep past her, enjoying having rendered her speechless for the first time. “And I can use it well enough. I think you’ll agree.”

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last.

“Unless you can use it to control an entire crowd of the living who are all actively shielding their minds against you, you can’t use it ‘well enough.’” Cressida shoves past me. “You’re very lucky you’re the best chance my court has, Nicnevin, or I would’ve?—”

She chokes off again, her threat muted by the vow. Goddess, I can practically hear her last nerve fraying from here.