Chapter 47

Forty-Seven

Rhoswyn

K itarni regales me with tales from her travels on the way to the temple, pausing only to allow me to bless the shrine. Bree follows silently behind us as we walk aimlessly through the ice-bound halls, exchanging news and catching up.

To get here so fast, she hired the services of a fae with the gift of blinking to take her as far as the Findwellyn. After that, she had to bargain with the kelpies to reach Winter’s Fork, and she’s been a day’s ride behind us the entire time, following the trail of pilgrims to Calimnel.

But all her tales can’t distract me from the thoughts running in circles in my head. Thoughts that only grow louder when we leave the temple, and there’s nothing to distract me.

Bram’s been here all along. Following us ever since Siabetha. He just doesn’t want to talk to me. I thought he was just checking in on us occasionally, but to hear that he’s been practically glued to my side and yet choosing not to be seen? That cuts. Drystan seems to think it’s because of my mortal sensibilities, but I doubt that’s the reason. Bram knows I’m comfortable with the dead. He also knows that I’ve been practising my powers.

Is it resentment? He died for me. Dived in front of that blade, for me . He never got to see the rest of his brothers, never found a mate, or really got to enjoy his freedom after leaving Fellgotha. All because of this stupid pilgrimage and these ridiculous royals…

“You’re in a bad mood,” Kitarni observes.

I look up, then wince as I realise I’ve been stomping down the corridor.

“Sorry.” My anger flees. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Grief, silence, and rage are the bedfellows love leaves behind,” Kitarni recites. “You’ve been so focused on the pilgrimage. Now that it’s over…”

“I already grieved.” My words are curt, but I hate the reminder of how I fell apart in Bree’s arms.

The dryad pins me with a look. Sometimes, I forget just how long she’s lived—she’s my friend, and the age-gap seems insignificant—but that gentle, knowing expression speaks of centuries of wisdom and painfully hard-earned truth.

“Grief is not something one does and then continues as they were before,” the high priestess reminds me. “It’s something you carry with you forever, and you learn to live with.”

“I know that!” I swallow and tuck a stray strand of my hair behind my ear as I collect myself. “I just… don’t understand why he wouldn’t show himself to me. He’s travelled with us all this time. It didn’t need to be goodbye.”

“But it did, and I suspect he remained out of sight for the same reason you didn’t summon him.” Kitarni bumps her shoulder into mine affectionately. “Both of you understand that he has passed on, and pretending otherwise is the way to madness. It’s healthy that you respect death as final, rather than seeing your power as a way to spare you the pain of loss.”

My mind drifts back to Cressida’s mother’s journals. To the way she clung to those she lost, coexisting with them as if they were still alive. The guilt of denying them rest in the Otherworld ate her alive, but the sorrow of parting was too much for her to bear.

No. I don’t want to be like that.

“The pathway between life and death is a difficult one to navigate, but Danu knew you were capable of it.” Kitarni sighs. “I don’t think anyone would fault you if you summoned him to say goodbye and asked him your questions before he left. I believe it would bring you, and those he knew, some peace.”

She’s right. Shame coats my throat as I realise it’s not just me who should get to say goodbye. Our brothers would appreciate the chance. Without meaning to, my mind drifts back to Caed, and the memory sphere he gifted me. He saw Bram as an older brother.

He’d probably like to say goodbye, too.

“When the war is over,” I decide. “Before Samhain.”

With all of Diana’s sons descending on Elfhame City, that seems like as good a time as any. Personally, I can’t wait to leave the glacial perfection of Calimnel behind and get on with the business of saving Elfhame. I’m scared of battle, of course, but the minor royals have done almost as thorough a job of trying to kill me and my Guard as Elatha has.

I wish I could say it’s made me stronger, but it hasn’t.

I’m not brave. I’m numb. But perhaps the two are one and the same when viewed through the right lens.

“Indeed,” Kitarni agrees, frowning. “Don’t look now, but I believe we’re about to be ambushed by a Froshtyn.”

My spine stiffens a second before a familiar voice calls out. “Nicnevin, a moment?”

Ashton.

It didn’t take him long to act on his brother’s orders. It’s barely noon.

“Maeve,” I call. “Mab. Titania.”

My grandmothers appear around us as I turn, looking past Bree, to the male approaching us.

Ashton isn’t running, but there’s definitely a hastiness to his step as he strides down the corridor towards us. The erratic darting of his gaze is the only outward sign that he’s different from the rest of the fae we’ve passed. He looks at me like I’m salvation and doom all rolled into one, and it makes me uncomfortable.

“Careful,” Maeve warns. “You can’t trust a word said by one who’s given their name away.”

I expect Titania to shake her head or scold Maeve for her lack of compassion, but she merely nods sagely. “Agreed.”

Pity tugs at my chest, regardless. This male has been bound in servitude to a tormented king for centuries. Given what I saw last night, I can’t help but feel begrudgingly sympathetic.

My logical brain knows that he may just as easily turned out as bad as the rest of them, even with his name intact. So I make sure none of my pity is visible on my face as he reaches us.

“Prince Ashton, save your breath. I have no intention of interfering with the affairs of the Winter Court.”

Given how they seem to deal with grudges, it would be suicidal to try.

He doesn’t falter, a smile as fake as Cedwyn’s obeisance fixed firmly on his face.

“Perhaps I simply wish to keep you company,” he says. “It’s criminal to leave two of the most charming females in the citadel to wander alone.” He offers Kitarni a slight bow, and she inclines her head to the side, accepting the flattery as if it’s a true compliment.

Bree shifts closer, his presence as reassuring as my guides’ on either side of me.

“Don’t give away what you know,” Maeve coaches. “You have the upper hand as long as you hold more information. And don’t be afraid to stab him for his impertinence. Unseelie respect that kind of thing.”

How exactly am I supposed to do that when I don’t even have a weapon on me?

“May I ask where you’re headed?” Ashton asks, falling easily into step with us, completely oblivious to how he’s practically inside of Mab.

It’s irrational to get irritated at him for it. The Froshtyns don’t have the sight. That’s an Iceblyd gift. Still, it seems rude.

“The dungeons,” I answer instinctively.

I have business with Torrance Lyarthorn, and he’s too dangerous to be allowed to languish, even under guard. For our safety, and Bree’s sanity, he must be dealt with.

“Ah, you want to interrogate the bard,” Ashton guesses. “I’ll gladly offer my assistance. They are insufferable, don’t you think? All those whispers they keep hearing with their too-big ears. If they weren’t so useful, I think we would’ve had them all executed.”

Ignoring his less-than-subtle remarks, I look over my shoulder, letting Bree know with my gaze that he doesn’t have to be with me when I do this. My púca stares resolutely ahead, refusing to meet my eyes or take the out I’m offering.

“I will protect you,” he promises, quietly. “I am well used to his tricks.”

Ashton stretches, the move deliberately putting him within reaching distance of me. His arm comes down, curling as if to wrap around my shoulders in a half-embrace?—

My púca is there before I can react, tugging me away and pressing an inky blade to the crease of Ashton’s armpit, exactly where my body would’ve been had the prince succeeded.

The look in Bree’s eyes is deadly as he says, “She’s not yours to touch.”

Ashton looks less than bothered. “Bards.” He spreads his hands wide as if in explanation. “Always so dramatic.”

“Mates,” Bree corrects, tucking me under his arm as he dismisses the dagger.

Ashton blows me an insincere kiss.

“He courts death, and he knows it,” Mab murmurs.

“Wouldn’t you, in his shoes?” Titania whispers.

That haunting comment echoes in my mind as Ashton leads us purposefully through the halls of the citadel, closer to the soft, glowing light of the crystal tree. As we ascend a third set of stairs, I shoot Maeve a questioning look.

“Calimnel’s dungeons are high in the trunk of the crystal tree. You’ll see why when we get there.” Her smile is vicious. “And if you can manage to implement something similar in Elfhame, I think it would really add some?—”

“She doesn’t need that in her home,” Titania objects. “Elfhame Palace is a place for the Nicnevin to rest, not endure the screams of her enemies.”

Well, that’s ominous.

Taking a deep breath, I try not to grimace as Ashton leads us out onto the battlements that surround the trunk of the tree.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” he says. “This rooftop was once a garden, before the tree took over. My father planted the seed on the day of his wedding. It was enchanted specially to grow at this altitude.”

All that remains of the roof now is the wide walkway around the base and a large bartizan overlooking the main gate far below.

“Impressive,” I admit.

Ashton’s wings flick out, glamour dropping as he takes to the air, offering me a hand. He has dragonfly wings, much like Gryffin and me, but unlike ours, his are… tatty. Almost like someone has taken a blade to the edges and made them uneven. I’m not sure if that’s how they are naturally, so I don’t comment as I ignore his outstretched hand and let my own glamour drop. Bree waits until I’m fluttering above him before taking off himself, the powerful rush of air his wings produce forcing mine to strain harder to compensate.

“This way,” Ashton calls, unperturbed by my display of independence.

“High Priestess?” Bree says, offering her a hand.

Kitarni shakes her head. “I… I belong on the ground. My lady, I believe you’ll be better served without me. You have my full support, whatever you decide to do with him.”

My guides take to the air around us, and I find myself studying their technique as we leave the dryad behind. Gryffin taught me a lot, and I probably wouldn’t be in the air without him, but I’m still a long way from mastering flight. It can’t hurt to study other methods to try to improve.

Ashton flies vertically in a lazy spiral that circles the translucent, veined trunk of the crystal tree. The glowing makes it hard to stare at when I’m this close, and the chill at this height seeps into my marrow until I find myself wishing Drystan were with me, even though he can’t fly. Every icy breath burns my lungs.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever feel warm again when he finally stops at a knot in the crystal bark.

It’s a door, I realise. A gaping wound in the tree, carved out with care and levelled at the base to form a room.

Blinking away the sunspots in my vision, I start to notice more of them amongst the cracks in the bark. Smaller than this one, and open to the air. Do fae… live up here? Surely not. We’re so high up that if someone were to fall, they’d be dead for certain.

Then Ashton leads us into the prison, and my naivety dies a swift death.

It’s a cell block. The main room we’re in is the guards’ chamber, and around it are a dozen or so transparent doors. The prisoners are huddled against them, like they’re trying to get into the guard’s room, but a second glance reveals that’s not the case at all.

The prisoners are clinging to the thresholds to stay inside the tree, rather than plummeting to their deaths below. Those cracks in the bark are places where the cells are open to the sky, and the prison floors slope at a cruel angle. If the occupants were to lie down, or leave their doorways, they’d almost certainly slip and fall. The few with wings have them bound to their backs, and their wrists are ringed with cuffs to prevent them from using their magic.

Suddenly, the dark patches I noticed on the throne room ceiling make a horrific kind of sense.

The prisoners have two choices: cling on and face the judgement of the king, or die. Yet still, some of them stand at my entrance, bowing shallowly.

Whatever crimes they may or may not have committed, I’m still their Nicnevin.

My heart clenches painfully, but Bree is behind me, steadying me. His quiet but strong presence grants me the courage to step forward. We’re here for his father, no one else. As Nicnevin, my priority is the fae who are currently refugees because their home—my city—is currently under siege. Interfering with Cedwyn’s prisoners, when I have no real justification beyond my own very un-fae-like compassion, is likely to cause a diplomatic incident that could jeopardise the fate of the war.

With that in mind, I fix my gaze on Ashton’s back—now glamoured to hide his wings once more—and follow him across the guardroom to the cell on the far side.

Unlike the other prisoners, Torrance doesn’t stand at my entrance. He sits braced across the doorway behind the sheet of crystal separating us, with one leg bent and the other dangling down the slope on the other side. He’s still wearing fine, brightly coloured clothes, with the fur around the neckline dyed a flamboyant orange that clashes strangely with his tattoos. His dark hair reminds me painfully of Bree’s, except longer, and is tied back neatly in a ponytail.

His hands are cuffed in front of him in silver shackles, but he raises them in greeting when he spots Bree.

“Ahh, if it isn’t my son.” His breath fogs the air, words muffled by the door between us. “And you brought your whore with you.”

“Speak to the Nicnevin with respect,” Bree snaps.

“Nicnevin, is she?” Torrance looks up, and I tense, even knowing he can’t use his magic with those cuffs on. “Funny. She looks like one stiff breeze would blow her over. Hardly what any fae would expect from Danu incarnate.”

Resisting the urge to look down at my clothes, I study him closely. There’s blank space on his neck—the only one visible across the rest of his skin, although he seems to have covered most of himself to protect against the cold.

And he’s also… completely relaxed. It’s as if he’s having a conversation with us in a comfy parlour rather than in a frosty cell.

I wait for Bree to take the lead, but… he doesn’t. His face is a careful mask, and his eyes won’t stray anywhere near the door.

“Curious. In times of war, Danu sends warriors to help us. Not little girls still looking to their mates for guidance.” Torrance tuts. “And with such a poor selection of males in your Guard… I suppose it’s no wonder so many don’t believe you’re fit for purpose.”

The words hit their mark, drawing blood from a deep part of me, but I focus on the last part instead. “My Guard is perfect, and you are a traitor.”

“Traitor?” Torrance clutches a hand to his chest. “You wound me. I’m loyal to my court, and my king, as I always have been. Why, even my most popular ballad is an homage to Siabetha in the sunset.”

Bree’s hand tightens in mine, but he says nothing.

“You mean Bree’s ballad,” I correct, frowning. “You didn’t write it.”

“I made it what it was,” Torrance argues, a fierce glint entering his eyes. “It doesn’t matter who wrote it. I was the maestro who made it great!”

He can’t lie, which means he really believes his own bullshit.

“Careful,” Titania warns, leaning over my shoulder. “Delusions of grandeur can be dangerous in the right circumstances.”

“It’s clear you think so,” I admit, squeezing Bree’s hand. “But you’ve not had any more successes in the last few years, have you? Not since you betrayed your only son and left him to die in the bowels of the Toxic Orchid. Hardly the actions of a maestro or a loyal male.”

“Some fae can’t recognise talent.” Torrance scoffs. “Besides, having a creepy little urchin lurking in the background of my performance was ruining the staging. And the boy was considering breaking apart our duo, anyway. I simply helped him move into a new career.”

At that, Bree’s head finally snaps up. “You charmed me into taking on your debt.”

“And you grew from it!” Torrance grins, apparently pleased to have finally wheedled a reaction from his son. “Without me, do you really think you’d have been strong enough to be appointed as a Guard, even if it is to a defective Nicnevin?”

“Rose isn’t defective.”

“That’s not what Eero thinks. Not what the Grand Clerics of the Temple thought either—before they were cast out by a weak high priestess.”

“Tell us what Eero’s plans are,” I order.

This debate has gone on long enough. Torrance obviously feels no repentance for what he’s done, and I won’t let him continue to torment Bree.

He shrugs. “I may not know.”

The evasion is so transparent it’s almost laughable, and Ashton evidently thinks so too, because he snorts.

“You were clearly trusted enough to plant the snakes in my room.” I turn to face the winter prince. “Is there someone in this place who’s skilled in the art of extracting information, or do I need to send for my redcap?”

I’m bluffing, of course. I don’t have the stomach for torture, even if Lore would be only too happy to oblige. But Torrance doesn’t know that, and apparently neither does Ashton, whose brows rise.

“Of course.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Torrance gets to his feet at last, hands behind his back. “As nice as this little chat has been, Nicnevin, I’m merely here to deliver a message.”

He takes a willing step back, feet slipping slightly on the slope.

My frown deepens.

He’s not going to jump. Torrance is too full of himself for that to be an option.

“What message?” I ask, begrudgingly.

“If you can’t respect the new sovereignty of an independent Summer Court, Eero’s spies will hand over every weakness the fae have to those who will.”

Elatha. He’s talking about giving Elatha information that will help him win the war.

“He’d hand the fae over to the Fomorians on a silver platter simply because he refuses to bow to me?”

I can’t contain the incredulity that slips into my voice. Eero is still fae. I know he’s working with Draard, but for some reason I expected him to have some principles.

Torrance takes another step back, losing his balance slightly on the icy floor as an unhinged smile creases his cheeks. “Many would argue that you already handed the queendom over to them, when you let their most deadly general into your bed.”

“He’s bluffing.” Bree’s hand is clasping mine so tightly that I think he might break bones. “Eero would never?—”

Torrance brings his hands—his unshackled hands—around to his front, and Bree’s breath catches.

Cupped in his palms is a single, ink-black rat.

“Please—” Torrance begins, but his next words are silent. Bree has stolen the sound from the entire cell block.

His father doesn’t seem to care. The rat disappears into inky mist, reforming over his throat as Bree rushes forward, slamming his hand soundlessly against the crystal barrier.

“Stop him,” I mouth at Mab, who rushes the door as well in spirit form.

But it’s enchanted. Magic-proof.

She can’t cross. I start to funnel more magic to her in the hopes of her breaking it, but everything happens too fast.

Guards are rushing towards us, but they’re not going to make it in time.

No one can stop Torrance when he raises a hand in farewell, turns, and slides the remaining few feet to the yawning sky beyond.

He plummets downward and out of sight. The image is all the more unsettling for the lack of sound. There should be a scream, a splat, anything.

The door finally bursts open, and Bree steps through just far enough to lose his balance. His arms windmill uselessly. He’s going to fall. My heart lurches even though logically, I know he has wings.

At the last possible moment, Ashton reaches in and snatches him back through the door.

Safe.

Still, the shock makes my púca lose his concentration. All of the panicked noise around us returns in a rush that stings my ears.

It grows deafening as Torrance soars up again, held aloft in the arms of a high fae wearing guard armour. For a relieved second, I think he’s been re-apprehended. Then the feeling sours as the guard flies in the opposite direction, and the bard has the audacity to wink at us as his companion retreats.

Then they’re both gone. Hidden by a glamour.

“After him!” Ashton and I order at the same time.

“How did this happen?” I demand, as fae with wings dash out of the cell, taking flight. “I thought these cells were secure.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about his escape remaining a mystery for long, your Majesty,” Ashton replies tartly. “King Cedwyn will be even more furious than you are.”