“No! That’s not what I meant!”
I whirl, looking to Drystan to help me undo this.
He groans, pulling Blizzard to a halt, and slides from his saddle. “We don’t have time for this.”
So follows the most mortifying half an hour of my life. Jaro half-falls off his horse because he has no way to move his hands, which are then wrestled away from his ears by Lore and Drystan. Of course, then my charm magic refuses to work the first three times I try to undo it.
By the time we’re finally underway again, everyone has forgotten about the initial conversation, and the increasing signs of civilisation make me loathe to bring it up again. How do you ask someone to explain what they mean by ‘spanked’ when there are fae walking past your horse, hanging on your every word?
“We’re nearly at the shrine,” Bree announces, as we pass through a hamlet where the houses are built into small earth mounds, each one topped by a contorted blossom tree.
At the end of the street, over a dozen or so fae have gathered around the base of the oldest, most gnarled tree. They’re mainly dryads, though there are a few other fae dotted about. All of them bow deeply as we dismount, and I try my best not to feel nervous as I approach the shrine keeper.
Jaro stays close to me, and the other three form a protective semi-circle at my back. Remembering what happened with Bram, I keep a respectful distance between myself and the priest.
“Goddess bless the Nicnevin,” he murmurs, blossoms falling from the branches of his hair. “This is the heart of our sacred grove.”
I look up into the boughs of the immense pink magnolia, smiling at the white strips of fabric which stream from the many branches. Some of them are so old and weathered that they are practically see through, but a few are bright and new, with letters inked into the fabric.
“Are those wishes, like the boulder shrine?” I ask Jaro quietly.
He stiffens almost imperceptibly. “No. They’re mourning ribbons, for the dead.”
The compliment I was about to pay the priest dies on my tongue.
Instead, I settle for, “This is a peaceful place.”
It takes a minute at most for the blessing to be complete. This time Danu decides to make her presence known by changing the colour of the blooms from a natural pink to the gentle blush of golden peach found only in soft summer sunsets. The leaves swell, becoming twice their usual size, before turning pure white to match the ribbons.
Unlike the other two shrines, where I could deal with the fallout without too many people watching, this time the crowd is right there, staring in wonderment as I let my Guard lead me away.
“Please, Nicnevin, take this for your journey!” A parcel is pressed into my hands.
“Take this tea. It helped with my first fever.”
Jaro is targeted next. “And this wine! My grandfather wanted to save it for something special.”
I look up at Jaro in alarm, silently pleading with my gaze as someone presses a rope of onions on top of the three packages I’m already carrying.
“Your offerings are appreciated, but we need to travel light.” His tone—while pleasant—is loud and unyielding. “You would be better served holding a feast to honour Danu’s gift and praying for your Nicnevin’s safety on the road.”
Murmurs of assent start up, and someone mercifully removes the onions from my grasp before I’m hurried back to the horses and lifted into the saddle. The village fae follow behind us, calling out praises and blessings. The longer it goes on, the more I sink down in my seat, trying to hide behind Drystan’s body.
It isn’t until we’re deep in the hills, finally alone, that I can relax. The tightness across my skin is worsening, and I open my mouth to say something to Drystan before it escalates, but I don’t get a chance.
Bree holds up a hand, bringing the whole group to a stop. On top of his head, his feline ears twitch this way, then that, causing the rest of my Guard to eye the two rock-strewn banks on either side of the road warily.
“Jaromir, take Rhoswyn,” Drystan mutters, so quietly I barely hear him. “Lore—”
The redcap is already gone. A second later, he lets out a huge whoop, followed by a clang.
As if that’s the signal they were waiting for, the Fomorians descend on us in a blue wave, swarming us with their iron swords raised high above their heads as they charge down from where they hid among the craggy hills.
An ambush.
Jaro yanks me down from the saddle. His grip is rough with urgency as he surrounds us both with one of his golden shields, just in time to deflect a deadly blow from behind. Blizzard gives a fierce whinny and rears, stomping the Fomorian into the ground.
Blood sprays everywhere, splashing against Jaro’s golden shield and dripping away in a macabre streak. My eyes follow the trail, grimacing as I see what remains of our attacker’s caved-in skull.
