Chapter 37

Thirty-Seven

Rhoswyn

I ’m still thinking about Mervyn’s words the next morning as Drystan fusses with the fastenings of the heavy fur coat I’ve been forced into. Blizzard is beside us, and everyone else has mounted up, but my dullahan just won’t stop lecturing me on snow safety.

“Rhoswyn, you’re not listening to me.”

He’s right, and the knowledge colours my cheeks until he sighs.

“Your necklace will protect you from the worst of the cold, at least enough that you shouldn’t get frostbite, but without the rest of the set…”

“There’s a set?” I ask curiously.

“A very fancy one.” Lore pops into existence beside us with a grin. “A family heirloom of Froshtyn House from the founding of Calimnel, recently—well, recently by fae reckoning—split between three very angry brothers. All together, the set protects one from getting chilly.”

He’s talking about Cedwyn and his brothers, I realise. “I’m wearing Cedwyn’s mother’s jewellery?” I squeak. “Won’t that upset him?”

“The necklace wasn’t his to give,” Drystan replies curtly. “Ashton gave it to me when I was exiled. Cedwyn has the earrings, and Kieran took the anklet with him when he left the realm.”

So the male who cut off his hand also gave him a priceless family heirloom? My confusion must show on my face, because Drystan sighs impatiently.

“Ashton gave Cedwyn his true name as a child. A lot of his actions… aren’t his own. Those that are often make no sense. He’s the mad dog of the Winter Court. He was just as likely to give me the gems as he was to strangle me with them.”

That’s horrible. Cedwyn tricked a child into giving up his name?

“Ashton spent half of my childhood jumping out from behind every corner with his sword out, ready to murder me if I wasn’t fast enough to defend myself, and the other half ignoring my existence or doling out Cedwyn’s discipline.”

“And he could be your father?” I ask.

Drystan hesitates. “I suppose so. Though Hawkith was always insistent that I refer to him as an uncle.”

Because it fit his mother’s agenda for Drystan to view Cedwyn as his father. Yet, handing down a family heirloom and training a child to fight? Those seem like awfully paternal actions to me.

Drystan blows out another breath. “Anyway, as I was saying, keep your jacket buttoned at all times. Don’t rely on my magic to keep you warm. We could get separated, or I could be injured. There are all manner of predators who might take issue with us and attack, distracting me. Your clothes are your lifeline in the mountains.”

“When we finally get to the fucking mountains,” Caed grumbles, notably bereft of the heavy furs everyone else is draped in. “Your route has us going south for thirty leagues before we even start to scale the things. And let’s not forget the snow doubles—sometimes triples—the time it takes to get anywhere. We’ll be ten years older and the war will have been lost by the time we reach the city.”

“Calimnel can only be reached via a trail that begins at Winter’s Fork,” Jaro says, riding up beside us. “It’s one of the most beautiful trails in all of Faerie. Rose will love it.”

“Oh, you mean the six-foot-high snowdrifts, deadly wildlife, and sheer cliffs of doom are supposed to be beautiful?” Caed rolls his eyes. “No, thanks. Tried invading that court and gave up for a reason.”

“I still think we could’ve managed it,” Prae protests, her tone coloured with the exasperation of an old argument. “I had this design for metal carriages with these hooks that would be able to?—”

“We didn’t have the time or the resources to invent that. Letting them starve to death was a better?—”

“If you two have finished talking about all the ways you planned to invade my court, we need to get going.” Drystan is less than impressed as he finally lifts me into his saddle.

I’m riding with him again because my Guard all insist that it’s safest. In the hours since dawn, I’ve been told at least three times that in a court of ice, the best place for me is with the fire fae.

Lore blinks Jaro first, then Bree, then Drystan and me. But when I open my eyes and take the first breath of freezing air, I’m smacked in the face with a snowball.

“I didn’t mean it!” Lore protests. “I was aiming for the dullahan!”

But Jaro’s wolf is not impressed, shining out of his eyes as he rides between Blizzard and Wraith, deliberately keeping Lore away from me as we travel through piles of snow in a single file line with us at the front, and Caed at the very back, shivering in the only jacket he owns.

Tall coniferous trees loom over us, their branches heavy with yet more white. The hushed, peaceful atmosphere that only comes in winter is heavy here, broken only by the occasional caw of a bird from above. Combined with Drystan’s power keeping us both in a comfortable bubble of warmth, I feel no guilt in curling up in his arms and letting Blizzard carry us wherever we’re headed.

I’ve never seen this much snow before. My mortal village was lucky if we saw a dusting two or three times a year and it was never more than ankle high. This… this is beautiful. Some part of me can’t help waiting for the inevitable moment that the war corrupts it. Wraith is bounding through it, snapping great big flakes from the sky with exuberance that has Lore clutching at his fur with hoots of enjoyment.

“Are there any Fomorian camps we need to take care of here?” I ask, trying so hard to keep the weariness from my tone.

I argued tirelessly to keep taking back the forts on the northern shore, but already I’ve had enough of death to last me a lifetime, and the real battle is still on the horizon.

“No,” Drystan answers. “They’ve not yet launched any real incursions into this court. They rarely even camp on our side of the Torvyn.”

“The drakes don’t like the cold and the lack of clothes made it hard,” Prae mutters, drawing her own heavy furs around her tighter. “You ever get a frostbitten tit? I almost did once.”

“Need me to kiss it better?” Gryffin asks, and a bit of my saliva goes the wrong way, almost choking me.

My embarrassing coughing fit lasts long enough that the conversation has thankfully moved away from Prae’s breasts and back to the plans.

“So we’re not camping soon?” Caed sounds almost disappointed, and I don’t blame him.

He’s the only member of the group without suitable clothes for the snow. When I quietly asked where his furs had gone, they all pretended not to know anything, and Caed told me to drop the subject.

Males. It wouldn’t surprise me if this is some stupid ordeal they’ve set up to make him prove himself somehow.

“Do you want to camp in this?” Jaro gestures around us at the piles of waist-high snow. “It gets colder at night.”

“Not as frosty as the winter fae’s hospitality!” Lore chimes in with a grin.

“They just don’t like outsiders,” Bree excuses, breath freezing before his face as he rides up beside us. Naris happily strides on top of the snow like he was born for it, which I suppose he was. “It takes a little while for them to warm?—”

“I imagine it’s easier to get them to like you if you’re one half of a semi-legendary bardic duo and your father has the gift of charm.” Drystan’s comment earns him a poke in the ribs from me, but Bree just laughs.

“Yeah. I suppose that did help. But we’ve got the Nicnevin… Maybe if you Fomorians stop talking so much about starving them out, we’ll be fine.”

“Starving them wouldn’t have worked,” Drystan adds quietly under his breath.

I consider asking him why, but I doubt he’ll answer. He obviously doesn’t want Caed to hear.

“There will be occasions where we have to camp,” he says, a little louder this time. “But I will try to make them few and far between.”

With that vow, he nudges Blizzard into moving a little faster through the flurries of white.

The first sign of civilisation is the smoke. Soft grey plumes waft through the trees in whimsical clouds, speaking promises of warmth just ahead. Sure enough, houses come into view as we round the next corner of the invisible trail we’re on—and it is a trail, even though not much marks it as such except the occasional cervid-skull-topped cairn.

Their cabins are made of logs and crowned with so much snow that it would be impossible to discern them from the rest of the landscape if not for their dramatic triangular shape. Oddly, the doors are on the second floor, with steps leading up to them sheltered by the massive overhang of those incredible roofs.

The fae who walk between them are swathed in thick clothing that makes it impossible to discern any of their features, and I play with the fur lining my own cuffs nervously.

“You’ll be fine,” Drystan mutters. “Follow my lead.”

At the entrance to the village is a pair of conifers with rope strung between them above head height. They’ve been threaded with hag stones and the skulls of birds, which tinkle in the frosty breeze. Their presence is equal parts chilling and fascinating, lingering in my thoughts even as we ride into the stables and Drystan dismounts, lifting his hands to help me down.

“Lord Snowchild.” A high fae who must be the stablemaster halts us in our tracks, an unlit lantern held out in both hands like an offering as he bows his head.

The other grooms are silent. Even my Guard barely breathes. I hold my curiosity back by sheer force of will as I watch the thoughts fly across my dullahan’s face. To others, he might appear stoic, but I’m learning to read the twitch in the muscle of his jaw as disquiet, and the slightest furrow of his brow as surprise.

It took time, but I think he and I are finally coming to understand one another.

Finally, he reaches out and grazes the top of the metal lantern with his palm. Fire shoots up within, and the stablemaster bows deeply, but doesn’t thank him. Not that he would, given the fae hatred of owing debts.

The horses are taken from us quickly after, though Wraith ignores their attempts to corral him into a stall and instead heads back out into the snow with a yip of enjoyment, snapping at the swiftly falling flakes.

It isn’t until I’m being ushered along narrow streets between the snowy cabins that we’re alone and I can ask, “Why did he offer you his lantern?”

Drystan shrugs. “An old ritual of little consequence.”

Not believing him, I nonetheless nod and let him lead me towards the temple. It’s a towering structure, though still made of wood, standing two stories taller than the other buildings in the village. The architecture is more intricate too. It shares the sharp sloping roofs of the cabins, but the multiple floors are broken up with straight walls, the rooms getting smaller towards the top. The temple is crowned with carved fish that leap from the corners of each floor.

Danu is a Goddess associated with water, and fish are one of her symbols. They’re probably the only outward sign that this is a temple and not just a grand house.

My entire body yearns for the scent of roasting meat coming from inside, but when we get there, Drystan doesn’t immediately open the door that’s lit from behind by what can only be a blessedly warm fire. Instead, he drags us left, making our group circle the temple three times before knocking on the main door.

More questions spring to mind, but I don’t say anything as a priestess opens the door and ushers us inside.

Boots are taken off, and cloaks and coats are unbuckled. It’s like shedding a soggy second skin, because I instantly feel lighter and warmer for the loss. When I turn around, looking for my surly Guard, he’s holding his hand over another lantern, this one being presented to him by a brownie in acolyte robes.

“Nicnevin, we’re honoured that you’ve come.” The priestess who opened the door for us offers me a small bow. “Our hearth is yours.”

Maeve appears behind her, mouthing words, and I echo them dutifully. “May we bring good health and happiness before it.”

My answer seems to appease the acolyte, and Maeve gives me a double thumbs up before disappearing again. I’m ushered towards the immense fire pit in the centre of the room. Food is pressed into my hands before I can say another word.

“News of your exploits along the northern border reached us a few days ago,” the priestess explains, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. “And the High Priestess’s reinstatement brings joy to many, of course.”

The calmness in her tone isn’t reassuring like Kitarni’s is. There’s an edge to it that’s almost sharp enough to cut. The words are friendly, but the delivery leaves me unsure of how to take them or how to respond.

Thankfully, Lore is there, dragging me into his lap. “Eat this!” He shoves some kind of meat on a stick at me, and I eye it sceptically. It’s got speckles of some kind of bright orange over it, but I take a bite, anyway.

Fire explodes in my mouth, stinging my tongue.

“Hot!” I cry, eyes watering.

“Redcap!” Jaro snarls, and I’m stolen from Lore’s lap and plunked into the wolf’s as I choke on the bite I just swallowed.

Lore cackles as Bree passes me a mug of something steaming which turns out to be muddlevein tea. It soothes the instant burning feeling, but it’s gone too soon.

“Winter Court food is designed to warm you up from the inside out,” Jaro mutters. “Which the redcap must have known before he gave you that.”

“It was nice,” I protest.

And it’s not a lie. Now that the burning has gone, the aftertaste is deliciously sweet and almost reminds me of berry syrup.

“You should’ve been warned,” Bree murmurs grumpily.

Sighing internally, because now they’re trying to protect me from food of all things, I take another experimental bite, this time focusing really hard on not coughing and embarrassing myself in front of the assembled priests and priestesses.

I actually… like it. Now that I know it’s coming, it’s not so bad and I can focus more on the flavour underneath the spice.

I’ve finished the whole skewer by the time Jaro finally relinquishes me. More of the village starts to arrive, taking spots around the fire pits until I feel like I’m at the centre of some unofficial community gathering. The room starts mixed, but soon splits apart, and I’m tugged away from Bree by the same priestess who welcomed us at the start.

“It’s better not to suffer the endless war talk of males,” she says, leading Prae and me to the left side of the fire. “Besides, we’re all dying to hear how Lord Snowchild got his engagement necklace around your throat.”

I stop midway through taking a cushion offered to me by a púca. “Engagement necklace?”

The whispers that spring up are full of delight and humour. Only one phrase matters, though.

“She doesn’t know,” is repeated by over a dozen mouths and even louder by the children present.

It ripples through the crowd, crossing the divide between males and females until a barbegazi slaps Drystan on the back, followed swiftly by other males, as if he’s done something worthy of approval from the hard-to-read fae. Even Prae’s eyebrows rise behind the mask of deep navy war paint that covers everything north of her cheekbones, smirking like she’s in on the joke.

The stoic priestess breaks into a small smile. “I see. He didn’t tell you, then?”

My hand rises to touch the snowflake in the centre of the antlers at my collarbone, ass falling the last few inches to the cushion in shock. “He… said it was an heirloom. That it was enchanted and would protect me.”

Prae nods. “It’s also traditional for Winter Court males to trick their mate into wearing engagement jewellery.”

My eyes travel over the heads around us—something that’s more difficult than it seems when there are trolls in the room—and find him and the others. My Guard is deep in discussion with the other males of the village, even Caed is listening in from his spot leaning against the wall, but I’m more focused on the two unseelie of the group.

Lore knew. The bangles I’ve been wearing on my arm and Drystan’s reaction to each one suddenly make an odd kind of sense. He was teasing Drystan by loading me up with all the jewellery he could get his hands on.

I’m not angry. How can I be when Lore put his hat on my head—the redcap equivalent—within hours of meeting me? But shock has turned my cheeks pink, and the heat in them only grows as his amber eyes meet mine, and then he has the audacity to wink .

He gave me the necklace after I asked him to admit he cared. He proposed to me and then broke winter fae convention to tell me he loved me. Goddess damn him, I think my heart just melted.

“He tricked me,” I whisper, admitting it. “He just said it was an enchantment to keep me from feeling the cold.”

“Ah, the Spring Princess’s jewels.” A goblin with her ears and nose heavy with piercings nods knowingly. “He’s had it altered with the antlers, but that explains it. I knew I recognised those gems.”

“Spring Princess?” I ask, accepting a mug of something that smells strongly of alcohol but is still warm.

I know who they mean—the last queen of winter—but it seems odd for them to refer to her like that.

“King Cedwyn’s mother,” the goblin explains, mistaking my confusion for ignorance. “She was a soft little seelie from the Spring Court. His father commissioned the jewels to keep her warm and grew the crystal tree of Calimnel to remind her of her nice, easy life in the south.”

“She was his mate,” the priestess points out. “He was right to please the female Danu sent to him.”

“Danu sent her to live here, not the other way round. She should’ve learned to respect the ways of our people and become a true queen of winter.” The goblin is attracting her fair share of nods. “Instead, what did she do? Made him weak. Barely worth the title of Winter Queen, if you ask me. Archibald was right to slaughter them both.”

“For all the good that did him.” A different high fae argues. “Everyone knows Winter only thrives when the two great houses are in harmony. Since then, we’ve had five hundred years of a paranoid king who never leaves his castle.”

Prae and I exchange looks but say nothing. Everything I can learn about Cedwyn is useful.

“If he left it, that Iceblyd snake would just plonk her ass on his throne and call herself queen,” a troll retorts. “Fat lot of use she’d be in a war. She can’t throw her pretty gowns and poisons at the Fomorians and expect them to cower.”

“I’d still rather that than a king who won’t answer the summons of Danu herself!”

This debate is obviously a familiar one, because the other women have begun to mutter amongst themselves. A second later, I’m drawn into a different conversation, but my mind remains fixed on the things I’ve learned.

Neither of Drystan’s parents are popular. Good to know, but not exactly the attitude I need if Cedwyn’s supposed to rally these fae for war. Cressida and Aiyana might be bitches, but the two of them have the loyalty of their people. Will the Winter Court follow their king to battle if he asks it of them?

My grim musings distract me long into the night, keeping me awake even when Lore’s sleep-chuckles echo from the pile of soft furs behind me.