Chapter 40

Forty

Rhoswyn

N o one warned me the journey to Calimnel could get colder. I assumed—wrongly—that the mountain would be no worse than the foothills below, especially given we were wearing clothes which were twice as thick, destroying all traces of our natural figures, and sewn with charms down the front in two lines.

Yet now, ten days into our journey through the mountains, my eyelashes are so heavily frosted it’s hard to see. Jaro’s beard is flecked with snow. Cold is everywhere, and even Drystan’s magic and the winter queen’s necklace can’t make this situation any better. I almost want him to spank me again, just so my ass can remember what warmth is.

To make matters worse, we’re not the only ones enduring it. The fae are following us. A trail of lanterns in the distance mark their presence as they join the final stretch of our journey. They don’t approach, content to camp a respectful distance behind us, but their numbers are great enough that I can’t see the trail’s end. I can’t believe that anyone would willingly traipse up here, but apparently, it’s traditional, and the fae do love their traditions.

“Do we really need the Winter Court army?” I wonder aloud as we cross a ridge so steep that I don’t dare to look down. “I mean, we have Autumn and Spring.”

“Autumn’s army is decimated, and Spring’s is mostly seelie,” Bree points out. “Winter has the largest force of all, because the Fomorians haven’t attacked them yet, and their unseelie gifts are more likely to be of use.”

“Until Elatha neuters them all with iron poisoning,” Caed mutters.

“Oh, come on, without me there to hold things together, Draard won’t be able to figure out which end of the weapon to shove in the ground,” Prae says, rolling her eyes.

She, Caed, Jaro, and Gryffin swapped their mounts at the last village before the ascent, leaving their horses behind in exchange for the strange, squat fluffy ponies that are better suited for this terrain. Blizzard seems completely unfazed by the worsening weather and dramatic screes we’ve had to traverse, and Naris and Wraith are overjoyed. The barghest and the cat-sìth are happily snapping at flakes and pouncing into snowdrifts, much to the consternation of Bree and Lore, who’ve been doing their best to remain astride them.

“Draard,” I murmur. “He was the one in the Summer Palace, and the one who whipped you.”

Caed looks away sharply, but Prae misses his clear desire to avoid the situation.

“He’s always had it out for Caed, ever since he killed Bres.”

“Bres?” Jaro asks.

“My brother,” Caed mutters. “Challenged me to a fight to the death a little over a year after I came home with the Nicnevin’s mark on my skin.”

“Challenged a child?” Jaro’s voice hitches with shock.

“It happens more often than you would think,” Caed says. “I could hold a sword. I was fair game. Anyway, Draard was tipped to become Bres’s second in command when he took the throne, and he would’ve taken it. He was the perfect Fomorian.”

The bitterness in his voice is so stringent it silences the others. Even Drystan, behind me, seems quiet. I think this is the first time that they’ve considered what a Fomorian upbringing might be like. Perhaps, my dullahan is even considering that they might have some things in common.

I hope so. I woke up this morning to overhear Jaro and Bree quietly talking about the situation. Sixty days. That’s all that’s left until the eve of Beltaine. Maybe this is a sign that Drystan’s stubborn mind is finally changing…

“Too bad you couldn’t die,” he mutters under his breath.

Or perhaps not.

I lay a restraining arm on his bicep, trying my hardest to ignore the way that my dust is still coating every inch of him.

He slumps a little behind me. “We need to pick up the pace if we’re to reach the ruins of Mirrwyl tonight. It’s the last shelter before Calimnel.”

“Mirrwyl?” I ask, hoping for more information.

He just grunts in reply.

“It’s the ancestral home of House Iceblyd,” Lore adds. “Bit less grand than it was when I first visited, but there’s a shrine there. Who knows? Danu might spruce the place up a bit.”

“It would be better not to bless the shrine at all,” Drystan mutters. “Cedwyn was the one who ordered it destroyed in the first place, and Hawkith might see any blessing of Danu as a sign that you plan to support her quest for power.”

Goddess, that seems a bit far-fetched. “I’m not sure how either of them can expect me to support them after what they did to you.”

“They let me live.”

Yes, but only to suffer. I don’t say it aloud, but he must read it in the tense lines of my shoulders because he groans.

“A child is a huge drain on resources,” he reminds me. “My mother invested countless gold in my keeping and education.”

“Really?” I raise a brow. “You were a huge drain on resources for the two richest houses in Calimnel?”

“Besides,” he continues, ignoring me. “A change in leadership right now would not be beneficial to our cause. Especially as Ashton is an unknown variable. Cedwyn may be paranoid, but he’s a male of his word.”

One who ordered Drystan hurt over and over again.

“Look past your instincts?—”

“I don’t think I will.” I cut off his no-doubt wise counsel without care. “I did that with Aiyana and with Eero, and it didn’t work out well for us. If anything, I think I should be listening to them more.” I brush a stray piece of hair back from my face as I say it. “I told you, I intend to lead, and you promised to follow.”

“So we get to murder them both in a bloody coup?” Lore sounds positively gleeful at the idea, and I can’t help but smile a little at his enthusiasm.

“That remains to be seen,” I say quietly.

Though my fae instincts clamour for the blood of anyone who hurt my mates, I’m not so stupid as to think killing everyone is always the best solution. I have no desire to rule like Elatha.

It’s not until hours later, when the twilight sky is heavy with thick grey clouds, and the ground around us hidden by near-impenetrable fog, that Drystan pulls us to a stop.

“Mirrwyl.” He sighs the name in dreary resignation.

At first, I don’t understand. It’s only when I make out the remnants of an archway in the distance that I start to see things for what they are. A rock over there that’s a little too tall to be anything but a wall. A straight ditch that borders a snowdrift which has a perfect right angle.

Mirrwyl is a ruin buried in the snow, almost invisible, save for that one arch. Perhaps if not for the fog, I might be able to make out more features.

“Come. A little over here is a wall that will offer shelter from the wind.”

The wall turns out to be the remnants of what must have once been some kind of audience chamber. There’s even a smashed pile of rubble that can only have been a throne at one end, and a handful of pillars leaning drunkenly against one another in two neat rows.

“Cedwyn destroyed all of this?”

“In his defence”—Jaro reaches up to help me down before tugging me into his arms—“his parents had just been slaughtered.”

“He was probably more concerned that his crown was threatened.” Drystan swings down behind me and leads Blizzard over to one of the pillars.

Goddess, he’s practically a walking statue. I hate how being so close to Calimnel is clearly affecting him. But if I draw attention to it, he’ll only shut down more, and forcing the issue will not go down well.

“Where’s the shrine?” I ask Jaro quietly, reaching up to brush the snow from his beard.

“I’d expect in the temple somewhere. Want to find it while the others set up camp?”

I nod, and he takes my mitten-covered hand in his, leading me east, away from the unpacking. Jaro tucks me under his arm, arrowing us so that his body is between me and the worst of the waist-high snow. With his size, he finds it easy to traverse, but I’m not so lucky, stumbling and tripping through, until, with a wry grin, he lifts me up onto his shoulders.

“Jaro!” I squeal, completely unprepared to be so high, so fast.

“You okay?” The concern in his voice melts any annoyance I have. “I know you could fly, but I don’t want your wings to get cold.”

Neither do I, which is exactly why I’ve happily suffered them being buried under the heavy cloak for most of this trip.

“This is better,” I agree. “Though I still can’t see through the fog.”

It’s thicker than soup, and it doesn’t seem to be shifting any time soon.

Still, the farther we go, the more rooms seem mostly intact. We come across a half-toppled tower, then a kitchen with the roof caved in, and finally, a slightly less damaged section of the castle.

“Apparently, even Cedwyn wouldn’t risk the ire of the Goddess by destroying one of her shrines.” A cold voice echoes from our left, drawing my attention to a tall, daunting silhouette emerging from the same direction. “We wondered when you’d get here…”

My heart stops as a familiar figure with bronze skin and dark hair comes into view. Shock renders me mute, and my hands clench in Jaro’s hair, but I fight past it and the swift blooming hope in my chest to choke out a single word.

“Bram?”

The figure before me stiffens, then moves closer. As he does, I realise he’s not wringing his hands. Not looking carefully around for threats. Even his eyes seem lighter—unburdened.

Jaro, sensing that this is a conversation I don’t want to have from atop his shoulders, lets me down gently, putting me between him and the newcomer.

This male is almost identical to the brother I lost, but it’s not him, and the realisation slays me all over again. My heart crumples a little where it had just begun to heal, and my throat thickens until I can’t speak.

Those familiar dark brows crease with sadness and more than a little sympathy.

“Not Bram, my lady. You can call me Roark.”

Now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. The little differences in the confident way he holds himself and the breadth of his shoulders. Oh, and the giant great sword strapped to his back that must be as tall as I am. They must have shared a father, and I make a mental note to ask Florian to see a portrait of our mother and her mates when we return home.

If home is still standing.

“My mistake.” I try to smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances.” He steps forward, wading through the snow with ease. “I must speak with you. Things are happening at Calimnel, and the King…” He trails off, looking over his shoulder. “It would be best if we could discuss it alone.”

“Of cour?—”

Jaro puts himself between the two of us sharply. “No brother of the Nicnevin would ever ask her to put herself in danger without one of her Guard there.”

“It is for her ears only.” I don’t miss the way Roark’s hands come to rest on his belt. It’s too casual a move. Too deliberate.

Evidently Jaro thinks so too, because a golden shield flashes into being.

“Drop the glamour, assassin.”

Roark’s face twists into one of indignation. “Why would you even think such a?—”

A blade protrudes through his sternum before he can finish the sentence. Another lies against his neck.

Lore appears behind him, white hair and red eyes making him appear as some snow demon come to life.

“Oooh! Pet, you got me a present?”

Roark—or whoever is impersonating him—stills, eyes widening slightly.

“Can I peel off his mask with my knives?” Lore croons. “I bet he’d sing all his secrets.”

“He might not be working alone.” Bree appears out of nowhere, the fog masking his silent steps as his hands wrestle with the buttons of the thick cloak he begrudgingly donned at the start of our ascent.

A moment later, Lox bursts from inside the fabric with a caw of indignation, soaring into the mists.

“Why impersonate my brother?” I ask, feeling a little sick. “What was the aim?”

Lore cocks his head and nuzzles the neck of the imposter. “Please excuse my innocent little pet. I’m working on it.”

“Please, I wasn’t going to kill her. I swear.”

“Ah ah ah.” Lore taps the imposter’s lips with his knife. “I don’t care whether death was the end goal. You were going to touch her, weren’t you?”

The male grimaces, and Lore’s knife sinks deeper, drawing a delicate drop of blood to the fore. Then he turns back to me. “Why don’t you ask him with your sparkly eyes?”

Use my charm? On him?

Would it spare him whatever grisly death Lore has planned? Somehow, I sincerely doubt it. But it might save the others from danger at the hands of his accomplices.

“Please tell us what you’re doing here, and why you’re impersonating my brother. Oh, and while you’re at it, please drop your glamour.”

The charm layering my voice is potent; so much so that the male in Lore’s grip sags slightly. The illusion magic falls away, revealing a pale blond wearing the same armour, but with twin axes holstered at his hips.

“I’m here to capture you and take you back to his highness, to face trial. I used Prince Roark’s likeness as a way to get close to you without risking my neck trying to fight your Guard.”

“Trial?”

“For the murder of Princess Máel and collusion with the Fomorians.”

Oh shit.

“And the evidence?” Lore asks, voice silky, his blade sinking deeper until blood weeps down in a small waterfall.

“A bard,” the imposter-come-kidnapper chokes out. “He brought a letter from King Eero.”

A bard. My gaze flies to Bree, who’s staring at the blond with green eyes full of ghosts.

I rock back on my heels, stomach sinking.

Eero. Of course.

Mervyn may be dead, but we still have powerful fae enemies.

“Your Majesty!” A shrillfemale voice pierces the air. “Your Majesty, where are you?!”

Then, before I can say or do anything, Drystan is there. His hand fists in my cloak, dragging me away from the assassin and the echoing calls of the interloper.

“Nicnevin Rhoswyn, you’re in danger!” the female calls urgently.

“Kill him, Redcap, and do it quickly!” For once, Drystan’s bossiness is edged with panic.

Lore grins, slitting the male’s throat from ear to ear with a whispered, “No one touches my pet.”

Beneath him, the snow turns red, and Lore tuts as he shoves his cap into the wound.

Then he rocks back on his heels, examining the gasping corpse as it sinks to his knees. “That was far too quick, dullahan. You’re destroying my reputation with all these neat little murders.”

But Drystan isn’t listening. He’s too busy staring into the fog. Searching.

“Drystan, who is that?”

He turns on me with a resigned, warning glare.

“My mother,” he mutters, dragging me behind him as a rider on a white horse emerges from the fog.